


A Little Bonus

by Lokifan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Mean Harry, Non-Consensual Touching, Post-War, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-01
Updated: 2007-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-09 00:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14705885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokifan/pseuds/Lokifan
Summary: After running from the war, Draco is captured a week after it's end, and a vengeful Ministry hands him over to a Harry Potter who's doing his best to be in control. But Draco doesn't do submissive - at least not unless asked nicely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for thematic-hp's D/s-round-prompt, "131 - H/D. The Ministry gives Harry Malfoy Manor. With it comes a full staff and Draco Malfoy as a slave."
> 
> Harry and Ron are both semi-OOC, here, in a way that was basically gonna be dealt with as war trauma but that doesn't happen cos unfinished. Also, I was 17 and not very good at writing yet.

It was amazing really, Harry Potter reflected glumly. Two weeks since he’d finally destroyed Voldemort, he’d just got of St Mungo’s, the Weasleys and Hermione had survived the war. Yet still, the prospect of a meeting with the Minister for Magic had the power to make his heart sink like a lead balloon.

The wizarding world was still celebrating, and everyone was happy. The cloud of anxiety that had hung over everyone’s heads for so long was finally gone. The population looked decades younger in the absence of constant worried frowns; the shops on Diagon Alley were even starting to re-open. Almost best of all in Harry’s opinion was the re-organisation of the Wizengamot, and some new legislation. The surviving Death Eaters were going to Azkaban, but it would be one without Dementors, and everyone would receive a trial. Harry was determined that there never be another Sirius.

Of course, that didn’t mean that the Ministry had entirely avoided unpalatable behaviour. False imprisonments such as that of Stan Shunpike were only now being dealt with, and the Aurors seemed reluctant to give up their wartime right to use Unforgivables on suspects, never mind convicts.

Harry sighed. He was currently standing in a Ministry lift, on his way to meet Rufus Scrimgeour. He wondered if the man was going to ask Harry to be the Ministry mascot again. Harry snorted to himself (and got an weird look from the woman next to him at his various strange noises). There was no way he’d do that, no matter how much it jeopardised his chances of becoming an Auror. The Ministry had been utterly incompetent during the war; its major input seemed to be passing draconian laws and mass Obliviation. Harry was not going to pretend he liked it to please Scrimgeour. It might be a year on, but he was still Dumbledore’s man.

The lift pinged and Harry stepped out of the lift, with a large number of the flying memos. The witch he’d been standing next to looked relieved and Harry smiled to himself, wondering what she’d think if she knew the strange, scruffy teenager standing next to her had been Harry Potter.

He looked around the little reception room. _Huh._ Clearly, Scrimgeour was still more of an Auror than a politician. This floor was all his, and impressively private. However, it had none of the opulence Harry had expected. The room was almost bare, with just a hard bench or two and lights as furniture. Its only real decoration was the engravings on the fireplace. The accessories were all very Auror-ish: magical handcuffs figured prominently. Harry stared wide-eyed at one particularly heavy pair.

“Harry!” Harry spun round and saw Scrimgeour entering through a door behind him. “So glad you could make it,” he said, loping towards Harry.

Harry made some sort of affimative noise. Then he remembered Hermione saying through clenched teeth that no matter how the Ministry had behaved, they could only influence it and change it if they worked with it. Harry thought that if she had said that, Hermione who hated the Ministry even more than he did for its betrayal of her ideals, Hermione who was _always right_ , then he should probably try actually replying. After all, when Snape had come back to Grimmauld Place alone, clutching a Horcrux and offering to teach Harry Occlumency properly, Hermione’s smugness had been insufferable for weeks. Harry had no intention of going through that again.

“Yeah, I’m...glad to be here,” Harry said politely. “Er...nice place.”

Scrimgeour gave him a toothy grin. “It is, isn’t it? Lovely for...entertaining.”

Harry had a sudden flashback of a particular pair of handcuffs near the fireplace, ones that were velvet-lined. He fought a shudder.

“So, do come through to my office, Harry.” Harry swallowed and agreed, fighting off a sense that he was in the lion’s mouth, and now walking right into its digestive tract. He’d managed to kill Voldemort, after all. He was _tough_.

There was silence as Scrimgeour lead Harry down the stone corridor towards his office, and the ex-Gryffindor was grateful. He might have grown up in all the ways that counted. He might have fulfilled his destiny, saved the wizarding world, had sex and had his heart broken (Ginny had gotten together with a boy in her own year during the war), but Harry had still not mastered the art of making conversation.

Eventually they came to Scrimgeour’s office. Harry, who had for some reason been expecting a small room with rich furnishings, was surprised. The Minister’s office was about the size of Harry’s old classrooms, and the furniture was spartan. There was also very little paperwork on Scrimgeour’s large, solid-looking desk, although Harry suspected this was not down to organisation so much as the ex-Auror’s abuse of his new secretaries. 

“Do sit down, Harry,” Scrimgeour said heartily, gesturing expansively at the couple of chairs in front of his desk. Harry considered asking him not to call him that, since he hardly considered the Minister a friend, but then reminded himself that he’d decided to be polite.

“Thanks.” Harry took a seat. After a momentary pause, while Scrimgeour looked at the sitting Harry from his own standing position and Harry determinedly didn’t acknowledge his gaze, the Minister sat down opposite him.

“So, Harry. How have you been spending your time as of late?”

Harry looked at him incredulously and only just restrained himself from rolling his eyes. This was what passed for politicians’ small talk these days? “Well, I only just got out of St Mungo’s. And obviously I wasn’t exactly concentrating on hobbies before that,” he replied, keeping all but the barest hint of bite from his voice.

“Of course.” Give him his due, Scrimgeour recovered quickly after putting his foot in his mouth so magnificently; it was better than his fumbling response after once telling Harry it didn’t matter whether he was the Chosen One or not. “Now, you must be wondering why I asked you to meet with me.”

“A bit.” _Not really. I am well aware your motive is almost certainly to ask something of me, to get me on-side, to dictate to me the ‘responsibilities’ that come with my power._

“Well, Harry, the fact is that despite our earlier differences we owe you an enormous favour. You’ve done a truly remarkable thing, and the Ministry wishes to express its gratitude.”

A moment of silence, marked only by the tick of a grandmother clock. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Right, well. You will be aware, of course, of the concept of “spoils of war”. The winning side in a war has the right to take possessions that once belonged to the loser. This is an idea that retains power.” Harry hadn’t been aware of it really, but he nodded. “And of course, you know that the Ministry is seizing some properties belonging to Death Eater families, to search for Dark artifacts and make financial restitution for the war.” Harry nodded again, hearing in his mind Hermione’s rants about children too young to have anything to do with Voldemort being sent to Children’s Homes, and corruption and illegitimate financial gain.

“We are aware of your history with certain Death Eaters, and we thought our idea might grant you some personal satisfaction.” Here Scrimgeour allowed himself a smirk, and Harry wondered who exactly the man thought he was besting. Him, which Harry would not allow, or...? “With Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban for life and Narcissa Malfoy dead, and both surviving family members Marked, the Ministry has of course seized Malfoy Manor. I believe Arthur Weasley was in charge of the team searching it for Dark objects over the last ten days or so. The work is completed, the place is harmless. If you would like it, Harry, the entirety of the house, grounds, and associated properties and possessions belong to you.”

Harry only just managed to keep himself from gaping in shock. “You’re... _giving_ me Malfoy Manor?” he spluttered. He couldn’t process this. He’d been so on his guard and ready for manipulation or demands, and now _this,_? Well, after all the Weasleys' warnings to keep his defences up this morning, telling them about this turn of events was going to be _fun_. 

Scrimgeour only nodded, looking as if he quite enjoyed Harry’s astonishment. “And of course the various other Malfoy homes, and the family fortune. Narcissa built up quite an impressive stock portfolio. All the furnishings will be yours too, and you’ll have a full staff. Four house elves, and then a little...bonus.” Scrimgeour smirked again.

Harry still couldn’t get his mind around this; his head was reeling. “Seriously, you’re just going to hand it over? I already have a house!”

The Minister smiled blandly. “Of course, you’re under no obligation to take it. I would advise seeing the Manor before you decide, however. And we’re very happy to ‘hand it over’. You have saved the people, Harry.”

Ah. Harry’s mind abruptly cleared. So that was why they were doing this. Harry had saved people, and Scrimgeour wanted to make those people like him by giving things to Harry. This was all a PR exercise to show how nice the Ministry was and how free it was of corruption, giving everything belonging to an old, notoriously influential Dark family to the squeaky-clean young Saviour.

Harry grinned a bit to himself at that thought, and wondered what everyone would think if they knew some of the kinks Harry had discovered in his own subconscious. They were unlikely to find out quickly, though, since aside from some vanilla sex with Ginny – skilled on her part, fumbling and embarrassed on his – and a bit of groping with a nameless male clubber – Harry was still rather inexperienced.

But he was supposed to be thinking about Malfoy Manor, not sex. It should have been barely a question – he was being offered what was no doubt a big place with attractive gardens, no doubt lots of other nice houses, and lots of attractive possessions if Malfoy’s school stuff had been any indication. He’d have even more money than before, and more importantly a full staff – which meant Harry would never have to do his own laundry. (Although come to think of it, the staff might be more trouble than they were worth – Harry dreaded to think what Hermione would say if she heard he owned house elves).

Even better, perhaps, was the oppurtunity of sticking it to the Malfoys. Perhaps not to Draco himself – Harry despised him, but he didn’t really want to hurt him any more. Harry pitied him rather, especially since he assumed the other boy had ended up dead or in a jail cell with the end of the war. But Lucius Malfoy was an entirely different matter. The thought of that bastard hearing Harry had acquired everything that was his from his Azkaban cell made a shit-eating grin instantly bloom on his face.

However, Harry knew perfectly well it was unlikely to be that simple. Quite aside from Hermione’s inevitable indignation about the house elves, what would his other friends think? Would they feel comfortable with this? Could _he?_ Harry was unsure that he could ever think of Malfoy Manor as home. And however carefully the Aurors had combed the place, Harry didn’t trust that everything threatening had been removed. Harry’s experiences with the Horcruxes had taught him well how innocuous utterly evil items could look. And it would be just like Lucius Malfoy to own things that would prevent a half-blood ever living comfortably in his home.

And that thought was enough to make Harry decide he’d look at the place at the very least. He’d destroyed one of the greatest, darkest wizards of all time. He was damned if worry about Lucius Malfoy’s toys would stop him from doing _anything._

He smiled at Scrimgeour, who had been surprisingly silent during Harry’s brief contemplation. “I’d like to look around.”

The Minister nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I’ll have someone send you a time for your appointment. One of the wizards who examined the place can easily show you around.”

Harry thanked him, and took his leave. _Well that was surprisingly painless. Now all I have to do is explain all this to Ron and Hermione._

Harry felt a twinge of apprehension.

~*~

“That’s fucking BRILLIANT!”

Harry grinned slightly. He should have predicted this response, really. Ron thought the idea of getting a massive house and lots of money was _fantastic_ , and entirely Harry’s due for all the shit he’d gone through during the war. The twins were also around, having visited Grimmauld Place supposedly to check up on Harry and his various vanishing wounds, but mainly because they were curious about the meeting with the Minister. On hearing the news, their faces had cracked into identical, evil grins. Fred and George both shared in Ron’s malicious pleasure at taking the Malfoy fortune, and were distinctly joyful at all the pranks inspiration sure to come from Lucius’ evil family home.

“So you think I should take the place?”

“Of course! Can I come stay with you, Harry? I’d love to mess up some of Malfoy’s old stuff,” Ron responded eagerly. Harry laughed.

“You bet you can. They probably have a massive garden, don’t you think? And a great place for Quidditch! We could all play – ”

“What great place for Quidditch?” Hermione’s voice came from the doorway of Harry’s room. All four males winced a bit. They were well aware that Hermione might not be happy about this. The Weasley boys in particular were nervous of her wrath; with their parents, they’d grown up in full knowledge that the female of the species is often more dangerous than the male.

“Er...” Harry tailed off, then decided to get a hold of himself. He was a Gryffindor, after all. “The Ministry’s giving me everything that belonged to the Malfoys as a reward for killing Voldemort.”

_“What?”_ Hermione’s brown eyes went wide. Harry nodded weakly.

“Bizarre, I know. But Narcissa’s dead and Lucius will never leave Azkaban and Draco seems to have dropped off the face of the earth, so the Ministry can easily give it away now they’ve seized it to look for Dark artifacts. I’m getting everything, from the house to the cash to the house elves – ”

Harry stopped, aware he had just made a fatal error. The twins were looking at him like he was an idiot, and Ron seemed mesmerised by the angry Hermione, and all three were backing away so that they wouldn’t come between an increasingly enraged witch and her prey.

_“House elves?”_ Hermione’s voice was low, but dangerous. “You’re going to own _house elves?_ You’ll be setting them free though, I’m sure.”

Harry swallowed. “Well, sure, if they want me to,” he replied. “But most elves don’t seem to want their freedom, Hermione. I don’t have a problem owning house elves if the Malfoy ones are that kind.”

“You _don’t have a problem?_ ” Hermione said loudly. “You’re just going to – to order them around and _own_ them like they’re not even _human_ – ”

“Well, they’re _not_ human! They’re not made to be free, Hermione, they’re not like us!”

“That’s what people like the Malfoys say about people like me, Harry!” Hermione retorted, "Or your mother!”

“That’s not fair!” Harry responded heatedly. “They don’t even want to – ”

“Anyway, the house elves thing is hardly the only problem!” Hermione interrupted. “The Malfoy estate is private property, Harry. The Ministry had no right to claim it and therefore you have no right to take it.”

“Who cares if it’s private property? It’s property that had to be checked over because the Malfoys seem to have spent centuries filling the place with evil shit.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of a search warrant?” 

“For fuck’s sake, Hermione! Who’s it hurting? None of the Malfoys can use any of it!”

“No doubt there are relatives who the estate should have gone to,” Hermione snapped back heatedly. “Besides, this is a punishment for the Malfoys, and that’s illegal. It’s something handed down by a bunch of corrupt politicians and it would never be upheld in an honest court!”

“They tried to take over the country, Hermione! Don’t they _deserve_ a bit of punishment?”

“Oh, so they did something wrong, so they lose all their possessions, do they?” Hermione shouted at him. “Well, I can hardly say I’m surprised wizarding Britain is a police state, but I never thought I’d see you supporting it, Harry!”

Harry stared at her. “I – that’s _so_ unfair! I’m just taking what’s my due!”

Hermione glared at him, red-faced. Then she spun, brown hair whipping angrily behind her, and stormed out of the room.

~*~

It had been three days since their fight, and Harry and Hermione still weren’t on speaking terms. Hermione had stopped talking to him, except for muttering over-loudly about cruel and unusual punishment and unfairness whenever Harry was near, while giving him dirty looks. Harry found all of this highly irksome, and was hanging out with Ron and the twins, discussing what to do with the Malfoy estate.

They’d all come up with lots of highly enjoyable ideas. Since Harry already owned his own house and had plenty of money, their notions didn’t tend so much towards making use of this as to finding ways to use the Malfoy homes and fortune in ways that would give its patriarch palpitations. Currently tied for Harry’s favourite was building an luxurious Home for war orphans and wanking on Lucius’ desk.

But Harry couldn’t do anything of those things if he didn’t taken the Ministry’s offer, and he was still crippled by indecision over it. Which is why he was currently standing just outside Malfoy Manor’s gates, having Apparated there with his Ministry guide.

Mr and Mr Weasley hadn’t been much help in making the decision either, despite wanting to be of use. Mrs Weasley had been worried at the amount of Dark magic tied to the place, despite Harry’s skill with it. Mr Weasley had merely quietly asked if he thought the place could feel like home, and said Harry’s decision should rest on that. Harry thought he might have a point, but he honestly didn’t know if Malfoy Manor could ever be a home to him. Still, by the end of this tour he should at least have an idea.

“I’m Dominic Woodrow, Mr Potter, and I’m going to be showing you around the place. I’m an Auror, but I know the place well – I specialise in Dark artifacts and I’ve been looking it over.”

Harry nodded distractedly, wanting to get on with this quickly. “Yeah, hi, call me Harry.”

Woodrow spluttered a bit and flushed, obviously terribly flustered by showing the great war hero around and being asked to call him Harry. The younger man barely noticed, too busy looking up at the gates of Malfoy Manor. Harry had expected something pretentious, possibly with an ostentatious “MM” in the middle. Instead, the iron gates were gothic and interesting, with the only mark of ownership the metal snakes and wyverns that wound their way through the design. The house, too, was large but not overly ornamented, formed out of the local grey stone.

“Come this way, Mr Po – Harry,” he corrected quickly as Harry looked around with a slight frown. “Is there anything you’re particularly interested in seeing?”

Harry considered asking about the secret room under the dining room floor, but changed his mind. “Can we see the bedrooms first?”

“Of course,” Woodrow said obsequiously, and if there was a faint shadow of an uneasy frown on his forehead, the official quickly wiped it away. They moved swiftly up the drive and into the Manor proper, through a predictably impressive set of ebony doors.

Harry’s eyes widened as they entered the foyer. The floor was blue-grey marble, and so was the staircase that swept around the back wall. The room was about half the size of Hogwarts’ Entrance Hall and similarly populated by portraits. Most of them were empty, and Harry assumed they’d taken refuge where possible from the invading Aurors. Judging by the predominantly blond subjects of the portraits, Harry assumed these were ancestral Malfoys.

Harry looked around, raising his eyebrows. He’d have to think about what to do with these portraits. It was possible they could all cohabit peacefully, but if any of them behaved like Mrs Black he might consider burning.

Woodrow was already heading for the gorgeous, if cold, stairs, and Harry hurried to keep up. Anticipation was rising in his chest at the idea of seeing Lucius and Narcissa’s bedroom, and Draco’s too. He could scarcely imagine it. The idea of black walls and skulls instantly came to mind and Harry rolled his eyes at himself. Those Muggle cliches of bad wizards’ lairs were hardly likely to be accurate. Considering the legendary vanity of all three Malfoys, full-length mirrors and ridiculously large wardrobes were much more likely.

The stairs carried on to at least one more floor, but Woodrow led Harry down a corridor once they reached the first floor. “The master bedroom’s in the west wing,” he explained as they went. “There are some little rooms around it – the dressing room, the en suite, the son’s old nursery. Draco’s bedroom is in the north wing and quite nearby, actually. I understand his mother was very protective.” 

Harry nodded, not really paying attention. At the end of the corridor were a set of doors with the Malfoy crest set in them – a wyvern, with two snakes curled around it and the family motto engraved beneath it – _aurum potestas est_. This was surely the master bedroom. Harry unconsciously increased his pace, and Woodrow matched it. The two men entered the room together.

Harry stopped and blinked. _Light_ was his first impression – much more than in the corridor. One wall was covered by three large windows, and another had impressive ones too. The view of the grounds was absolutely amazing. Harry was surprised – he’d not have expected such apparent adulation for light from a family of Slytherins. But then perhaps that was why; the contrast must be nice after school years spent largely underground.

He looked around some more. The centre of the room was the bed. It was king-sized and comfortable looking, with a thick mattress and a soft looking duvet. Harry hadn’t expected the colour scheme either – he’d thought there would be lots of green. Instead, the predominant colour was blue. Robin blue for the walls, navy for the curtains, cobalt blue for the bedspread. The closest anything got to green was the teal hue of the carpet. But Harry did note the silver embroidery on the bedding, and the silver frame to the – _yes_ – large mirror. Not completely free of their Slytherin roots, then. 

Or maybe it just looked nice. Sometimes Harry wondered if the cynicism Snape had engendered in him went too far. He didn’t think so most of the time; he usually felt his old self had remained, just with more skill at Occlumency, and an understanding that really, really unpleasant didn’t mean evil. Snape’s training had got Harry through his battle with Voldemort and the Gryffindor was well aware of it. He seemed to have changed as a result of it, though. Or perhaps that was the _other_ things Snape had taught him.

Things about what Snape had had to do to be trusted as a spy. Things about bitterness and grudges eating people _(him)_ up inside. About how Voldemort used the Cruciatus and Imperius to make people do as he ordered. How he threatened their families. 

This last had been what really stayed with Harry. The only time he and Snape had ever really talked – and probably _would_ ever really talk – had been after they destroyed the _real_ locket, stolen by Regulus Black.

They’d gotten pissed on Firewhiskey. Snape had become rather loquacious after a shot or six, and what he’d heard had almost been enough to sober Harry. After the flight from Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had run away from him, terrified of Voldemort’s wrath and knowing his mother was most likely dead already. Snape’s Vow had finished with the completion of the task Malfoy had been set, but he worried about the boy still. He had no idea where he’d ended up, and felt if Draco were dead or hurt or exploited, it was down to him.

“Harry? What do you think?” He was pulled out of his reverie by Woodrow’s voice, and looked round once more.

There were two large wardrobes in the room, in opposite corners. These were the only pieces of furniture aside from the bed, mirror and nightstands; Harry supposed the rest was in their dressing rooms. The wood was teak, and engraved. It was all very attractive, but not particularly _him_.

“I like it,” he replied at last. “I could see myself sleeping here. It’s got a great view, very Gryffindor Tower. Can I see Malfoy’s room?”

“Draco? Yes, of course.”

They left the master bedroom and then the wing, coming surprisingly quickly to a door with a little wooden tag with _Draco’s Room_ written on it, surrounded by little dragons. One gave him a toothy grin and Harry smiled back as he pushed the door open.

Harry looked around the bedroom of his schoolday nemesis, laid completely open for him to enjoy at his leisure. His first, traitorous thought was that it was nice and cosy; his second that this was actually very similar to Ron’s room. Harry allowed himself a small grin at the mental image of Ron’s face if he ever heard _that_.

The walls were smothered in Quidditch posters. But where Ron’s room blasted the eyes with the bright orange of the Cudley Cannons, Malfoy’s pierced with pale blue and bright silver. The Appleby Arrows grinned and played all over the place, the silver arrows on their chests glinting. Above the bed was a large poster of an Arrows Beater sending a Bludger smashing towards a Wimbourne Wasps Chaser.

The bed was queen size, and covered in a comfy looking duvet with Snitches on it, and soft blue sheets. Harry saw something nearly hiding behind a pillow. He went over curiously, and grinned as he saw a soft blue dragon with orange scales sitting there. It regarded him with a stitched smile. Harry decided it was really very cute, and no doubt Malfoy’s favoured childhood toy, if it still had a place on his bed. He picked it up.

Instantly he was hit by a wave of Malfoy’s scent. He wouldn’t have thought he’d even register it, let alone recognise something as intimate as that. But it rolled over his nose and before Harry even knew what he was smelling he was hit by a powerful sense of pure _Malfoy_. It took him a moment to work out the components: musk and broomstick and expensive shampoo. It was missing the school edge of ink and dust but Harry would have known it anywhere. 

He suddenly had a moment of worry about what had happened to his old enemy. Obnoxious and cruel as the other boy could be, he’d suffered under Voldemort as much as any of them. Besides, Snape had been concerned, and he was hardly sentimental. If _he_ believed Draco Malfoy to be worth saving, that meant more than the same assertion from Dumbledore. Still, it was certainly too late now; the youngest Malfoy was most likely dead.

Harry sighed a bit and looked around some more. A well-thumbed (not to say battered, with half its spine coming off) copy of _Quidditch Through The Ages_ sat on the nightstand next to a couple of poisonous-looking orange candles.

There was a wardrobe, a mirror, and a chest of drawers around the room. There was also a wide bookcase. One of the rows of books had large, impressive-looking tomes that were all immaculate. The other two rows were filled with smaller books, probably novels. Their spines were hanging off and they were badly bent, but they looked well-enjoyed. 

Harry turned back to Woodrow. “I’m done here, thanks. What else should I see, do you think?”

“Would you like to meet the staff now, Harry?”

Harry blinked. _Staff?_ For a second he felt completely blank – then he twigged. The house elves. He nodded and they made their way to the immense dining room. It too was marble, and completely devoid of furniture. The emptiness made the room seem chilly, and it was odd when upstairs so many luxurious appointments remained.

Woodrow called out elf names as the two men walked to the centre of the room. Instantly three house elves appeared with the characteristic _crack_ of elf Apparition.

“These are Heggy, Etsy and Ingrid,” Woodrow said quickly, pointing to each one. Heggy was male and the other two female; they all wore similar uniforms to the Hogwarts house elves, tea-towel togas with a crest. The house elves were looking at him with a tremulous sort of adulation that made Harry swallow. He didn’t think he could handle living with three Dobbys.

“Uh, hi,” he started, but was interrupted by an enormous BANG! 

Woodrow’s Auror instincts took over. He grabbed a handful of Harry’s robes in one fist and his wand in another, dragging Harry backwards towards the doors they’d come in by. The elves remained frozen in place; the slight twitching of ears was the only indication they were even alive.

The bang was the opposite set of double doors being thrown open. Harry looked, and instantly froze in sheer astonishment.

_Malfoy. Here?!_

Draco Malfoy was being carried into the room by two Aurors. He was struggling and wriggling and fighting viciously, kicking out at the Aurors at every opportunity. The men looked tired and flushed, and distinctly irritable. This was no wonder, as in addition to his fighting Malfoy was screaming invective. He was insulting the Ministry, Scrimgeour, the entire Auror corps, these specific men and their mothers, seemingly choosing targets at random. He swore and spat and scratched and struggled, face bright pink with exertion and twisted in fury.

“And your mothers lie with centaurs and they’re probably Mudblood bitches and – ”

Malfoy had seemingly used up the last of the Aurors’ patience. A few metres into the room they looked at each other, nodded, and dropped Malfoy. His body smacked onto the floor before he’d had a chance to react, and despite himself, Harry winced. Slamming onto a marble floor like that had to _hurt_.

Malfoy fell on his side, and Harry heard the _chuff_ of air as he was winded. He noted how the blond hair fell in his eyes – it was scraggly and too long, and filthy besides. Malfoy’s expression showed pain, but almost instantly he wriggled and started pushing himself to his feet again, pink spots on his cheeks formed by fury.

He’d only begun to lever himself up when one of the Aurors’ wands swung down and kissed his throat. Instantly Malfoy stilled, and lowered himself very carefully back to the floor. Harry could see his hands were curled into fists, but Malfoy wasn’t stupid. He stayed silent.

“Robards has no problem with us using Unforgivables on Death Eater scum, Malfoy.” The voice was quiet, and all the more threatening for it. Harry saw the blond’s lips purse. His body stayed rigid for a second longer, though because of tension or because he was considering fighting anyway Harry wasn’t sure. Then his shoulders relaxed.

“Stand in line and keep quiet.” Even from across the room Harry saw Malfoy’s jaw clench, but he stayed quiet and got up, walking quietly over to the house elves and standing next to them. One of them. He stared straight ahead determinedly, apparently not wishing to meet the Aurors’ eyes; he seemed completely unaware of both Harry and Woodrow’s presence.

Harry turned to the Auror and hissed, “what the hell’s he doing here? I thought he was dead, or something!”

Woodrow grinned a bit. “He comes with the place, like the house elves. If you decide to take your reward, he’ll be your slave.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. He turned to look at Malfoy again. The blond was standing sullenly with his arms crossed, his mouth working but closed, pink spots of colour on pale cheeks. He turned to Woodrow again and grinned. “I’ll take it.”

Woodrow’s face was carefully, almost totally, blank as he said, “well now, do you want to finish inspecting the staff? Especially now they seem so...obedient.”

Harry grinned back. They moved silently along the marble floor towards the elves and Malfoy, unconsciously shifting into a silent predator’s gait. The blond couldn’t hear them, and he couldn’t see them either as he was now engaged in a glaring match with the Asian Auror that seemed to involve quite astonishing depth of feeling. The other, a sallow man with brown hair standing behind Malfoy, smiled thinly.

“Look at your master, Malfoy,” the brown-haired man sneered. Malfoy jerked his head, raising his chin to give the Asian Auror one final glare. Then he turned with a contemptuous sneer...a sneer that instantly shifted into an expression of blanched, pants-wetting terror on seeing Harry. 

“You’re kidding,” he stated flatly.

“Show respect to your master,” the Auror commanded, malicious glee mixing with scorn in his watery eyes. 

Malfoy spat, “oh, like _hell_ – ”

Instantly he was cut off as the man behind him whacked him hard across the shoulder. Malfoy fell instantly to his hands and knees, joints smacking the marble painfully. Possessiveness welled up in Harry and he glared, barely knowing where it was coming from. He rapped out, “don’t touch my property without my permission.”

All three Aurors’ heads whipped round in surprise. Malfoy’s head jerked up to stare up at him from the floor, wide-eyed. He looked as if he couldn’t quite decide if this was a good or bad thing for him. 

Harry flushed under the stares, suddenly aware of his snapped order. “I didn’t mean to be rude, sorry,” he said uncertainly. “I just – ”

“No, I apologise,” the Auror who’d hit Malfoy interrupted. “You’re quite right, Mr Potter. He’ll be properly yours soon, and the right to punish him is yours.”

Malfoy started spluttering. Harry noted, with a certain amount of amusement, that apparently no one had informed him of his fate yet. “What the hell?! What is going on here? Why the hell would I – _belong_ – ” his face twisted in revulsion as he said the word, “to _him_?” He finally stood up as he spoke, apparently convinced no one was going to knock him down again.

Harry looked at him, green eyes starting to glow with a predatory light. He moved forward, smiling slowly. Malfoy lifted his chin in response, grey eyes lighting with defiance, but he couldn’t quite stop himself backing up. He found his upper arms gripped firmly by his two guards, holding him firmly in place as Harry stopped in front of him.

“The Ministry felt it owed me something for destroying Voldemort,” he smirked. “They’re giving me Malfoy Manor and the grounds, and _you’re_ a lovely extra.”

Malfoy gaped at him in blank horror, body going limp for a moment in the Aurors’ grip. “No,” he said blankly. “No, you’re lying.” His tone was almost disbelieving. He didn’t believe it;   
_wouldn’t_ believe it.

Harry grinned wickedly. “Do you _really_ think so?” Malfoy started to shake, body trembling with adrenaline, shock and fright. His grey eyes had lost their almost unfocussed look; they were alight with fear.

Harry decided he’d definitely won this round, and turned to Woodrow. “I think I’ve seen everything I need to see. Shall we go?” Woodrow nodded, a look of lingering surprise in his blue eyes at Harry’s blatant, deliberate attempt to scare someone unable to defend himself. As they left, Harry heard an unintelligble yell from behind him and the sounds of a struggle, before a blow and a _whump_ as a body hit the floor hard.

He smirked.

~*~

By the time he went to bed that day, Harry was no longer smirking. On his return to the Burrow he’d been instantly beseiged by questions, naturally. Hermione asked no questions, but sat in the corner of the living room and listened intently to his answers, radiating irritation. She’d opened her mouth to say something when he revealed that he planned to take the place, but shut it again, brown eyes smouldering.

He didn’t explain it all at first; he wasn’t sure why. But after a few minutes he blurted out: “you’ll never guess what. Malfoy’s not dead. He was hiding in some family holding in France the whole time. They captured him after the war, and I guess they wanted to punish him for what happened at Hogwarts. He comes with the place. He’s going to be bonded as my slave at the same time as the house elves become mine.”

Silence descended. For long moments, the Weasleys stared at Harry, and Harry stared back. Then Ron gave a great whoop, breaking the tension as his brothers started laughing. “That’s fucking _brilliant!”_ Ron exulted. “You’re actually going to _own_ the ferret! You can make him do whatever you want! He’ll have to call you _sir!_ ” Ron collapsed on the sofa, cackling madly. The other Weasleys all started chiming in with laughs and ideas, though Mr and Mrs Weasley were strangely silent.

Harry grinned back at Ron. “You’ll have to come over to the manor. I’ll make him serve you drinks like a good little housemaid. You can even order him about if you like!”

_“Harry!”_ Hermione’s voice cut through the babble like a knife, and the Weasleys turned to look at her as one. Not because her voice was especially loud, or angry; because it was slightly rasping, and full of shocked hurt.

Harry looked at her uncertainly, not saying anything.

“Harry!” she repeated, eyes sparkling with tears. “You’re not serious, are you? You’re not really going to do this.”

Harry stared at her. He’d never seen an expression like that on her face. It was awful; she didn’t look angry so much as _betrayed._ Written all over her pale face was _how could you do this?_

“You musn’t, Harry. Please. It’s wrong. No matter his crimes, Malfoy shouldn’t be a slave. He should be sent to Azkaban. You _know_ that! If not for him, do it for me. Change this. I know you can.”

Harry couldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“What is it not like?” she almost screeched. “It’s slavery, isn’t it? You know, this is half of why I started S.P.E.W. in the first place. A society that accepts slavery in one species is always at risk of accepting slavery in general! You have no idea what this could start, what it could mean!”

“It’s just Malfoy, Hermione! Just one person!”

“Why are you letting this happen? Are you so desperate to have him do as you say? Are you really _that_ petty, after everything that’s happened since school?”

Harry shrugged. “I never got to choose punishment for any of my other enemies. But I can do whatever I like to Malfoy and no one’s going to stop me.”

Hermione stared at him. Then she screamed, voice like a blade, “you _bastard!_ ” She ran to the kitchen in a fury, and seconds later they heard the _whoosh_ of the Floo.

~*~

Although the row hardly did anything for the atmosphere, soon enough things relaxed again. The subject of Malfoy was left alone by tacit consent, although Harry did tell Ron quietly that he was due at the Ministry in a week for the bonding ceremony. 


	2. Chapter 2

Harry’s badge said _Harry Potter, Enslaving_. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he wasn’t going to complain overmuch. After all, the Ministry was giving him a very nice gift.

He got his wand registered by Eric, the security wizard, and then ducked away before he could get overly excited and announce to everyone else in the building that Harry Potter was _here!_ Harry wasn’t entirely sure where to go from here. He was only vaguely aware of the Ministry’s seven departments and had no clue which one would take responsibility for tying an estate and its dependants to someone.

“Harry?” came a familiar voice. He turned to see Auror Woodrow.

“Hi!” Harry said. “Can you show me where I’m meant to be, please?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Woodrow replied. He led Harry into a crowded lift. As Harry fiddled with his fringe in an attempt to hide his scar, Woodrow explained in an undertone. “This stuff is all being dealt with by the Department of Magical Creatures – they have a room and personnel in place to deal with switching a house elf’s allegiance, and it’s being used to deal with Malfoy too. But naturally, my department’s got in on the act because it’s the Malfoy property and heir. Robards wasn’t able to wangle jurisdiction but there’ll be a bunch of Aurors around to keep an eye on it all.”

Harry nodded. They came out on the right level, and Woodrow led Harry to the Beasts, Beings and Spirits Division. There was a large room with cubicles filled with Ministry drones. Off on the right was a little door with ACCESS FOR TRAINED PERSONNEL ONLY on it. Standing outside was a nervous looking, balding wizard in purple robes. He smiled widely as Harry and Woodrow greeted him, and wrung Harry’s hand in his own slightly clammy one.

“Hello, hello, I’m Callum Kingfisher. I’m going to be doing the binding. This should be very interesting, a human-to-human binding’s not been done in my lifetime, even if it once was quite a common thing. Rather a coup. They’re getting the room ready now, we can’t go in yet,” he added quickly, noticing Harry looking pointedly at the door.

“So how’s this going to work?” Harry asked, suddenly feeling the distance between Hermione and him very strongly. She’d never have let him go into this without researching it exhaustively and telling him everything he needed to know.

“The spell to bind the house elves to you is fairly straightforward – I just take their bonds to Lucius Malfoy and transfer them to you. Before I do that, I’ll tie the Malfoy estate to you. That will give you control over the wards around the ancestral home, as well as a connection to its intrinsic magics and the family heirlooms. It’ll also mean your descendants inherit it, instead of Draco’s.

“The spell with Draco Malfoy is more complicated. It’s not as difficult as it might be, though – you’re becoming the master of the Malfoy line, and he’s the heir. That means he already has a connection to the Malfoy home, and an obligation to obey you, even if it’s not quite as strong as the house elf’s compulsion. But house elves are supposed to protect the house and its master, whereas the heir, naturally, is supposed to be protected by them instead. That protection will vanish, and he’ll lose his connection to the heirlooms. Draco will also lose the ability to do anything to harm you or escape. I’m fairly sure he will still have a connection to the house, but of a completely different kind.

“The spells for this were all in the archive, strangely enough.” Harry really didn’t see why he needed to know this, but it was fairly interesting and a way to pass the time. Besides, Kingfisher clearly loved it all, and Harry would feel terribly guilty if he cut him off. “In the Middle Ages, barons quite regularly besieged other people’s castles and manors. If they won, they’d transfer the magic to themselves, obviously. It was the usual practice to enslave the heir.”

“Why not kill them?” 

Kingfisher looked pleased that Harry was taking an interest. “If you kill the heir the magic will transfer to the next person in line. There are a few documented cases of heirs escaping after their homes were taken over, and later re-taking them using their connection to the magics and wards. It’s a foolish risk to take.”

Harry nodded. Just then a short, skinny Indian woman appeared from the room they were going to be using. “We’re all set, Callum. Ready to go?”

“Absolutely, wonderful.” The three men filed in after the little witch.

Harry’s eyes went wide at the sight that met them.

The room was dark; none of the false windows that lined the Ministry were here, only torches. It was circular, and there was a sort of walkway around the walls; two feet in it became a slightly depressed round area something like an amphitheatre. The little witch was standing on the walkway, fiddling with something. In the middle of the mini amphitheatre was a lectern with a book on it. There was nothing else.

“Alright, Mr Potter,” Kingfisher said, hopping down into the depressed area and standing behind the lectern. “Come and stand in front of me and I’ll do the spells to make you master of Malfoy Manor. We can get it finished nice and quickly, I should think.”

Harry nodded and slipped the two feet or so onto slightly warm stone – he could feel it through his trainers. He stood before the lecturn while the wizard leafed through the pages of the book. He doubted he’d find it quickly – the tome was of a size that would have made Hermione proud.

“Ahh, here we go,” Kingfisher said, proving Harry wrong. “Now, hold still.” He held his wand out and began to speak. 

It was Latin, but Harry managed to hazily discern only that much before the gold glow from the end of Kingfisher’s wand enveloped him. It called on his magic, his will, his soul, that same part that was almost healed from his battle with Voldemort. The spell called on nothing so sentimental as his ability to love, however – it called on his triumph at victory, his will to conquer and dominate... and then his feelings about _home_. The room seemed to go away, and an awareness rose inside Harry. Images flashed before his eyes, stone and grass whisked by under his hands, he heard the sounds of a home in action in his ears. Harry saw the foyer at Malfoy Manor again, the master bedroom, the ballroom, the kitchen... he saw the pines and the arbour and the great, rolling lawn. He felt the place’s magic well up in him and twin itself around his own, and suddenly knowledge of everything about the place burst inside him like fireworks. Harry _knew_ the wards and the decorations and the darkness at the heart of all that magic. For an instant he felt like he _was_ Malfoy Manor.

And then it faded. All that Harry was left with was a glorious aerial view of the place in his mind’s eye, and a sense that he was truly master of all he surveyed.

Harry blinked and the afterimage vanished, to be replaced by a lingering gold glow and Callum Kingfisher’s satisfied expression. “That seemed very successful. How are you feeling, Mr Potter? If you’re a little disorientated don’t worry, that’s perfectly normal.”

“I...I’m fine,” Harry said slowly. “I guess. Shall we do the house-elves next?”

“As you wish.” Kingfisher nodded at the witch, and she went around to a door Harry hadn’t noticed before, behind him and to his left. She went out briefly, and came back being tailed by the three house-elves from before. Harry smiled at them, frantically scrambling in his mind for their names.

Before he could recall it, the first one carefully lowered herself into the depression. At a gesture from Kingfisher, Harry backed off to the left of the lecturn, while the elf – Heggy, was it? – stood on the right of the amphitheatre, facing him. 

Once again, Kingfisher spoke. This time the glow was a peculiar navy blue. Harry didn’t feel anything like the same emotions, although the elf seemed overcome by what was cast on her. All the spell was meant to do was tie the elf to him and make her obey him, though; Harry supposed it made sense that it would have little effect on his mind or feelings.

The spells were completed swiftly, and soon the elves were ordered back to Malfoy Manor to prepare for Harry’s return. Harry felt a leap of something in his stomach. Now what he was really interested in – the binding of Draco Malfoy to him.

The second door opened once again, and Draco entered between two Aurors. The difference from the last time couldn’t have been more marked. He was dressed in prison robes, not tattered robes of his own, and his overly-long hair had been roughly cut to its old length. Draco was silent now, walking quietly and not struggling, his head hanging. Harry felt a twist in his stomach at the idea that he was broken already. Surely he wouldn’t have given up so soon? That would be no fun at all. No fun playing with him that way, and no fun worrying about what had happened to make it so.

Then Kingfisher said, “bring the creature here, please,” pointing at the place on the right where Draco should stand. Draco’s head snapped up, fury blazing in resentful grey eyes, and he rose his chin proudly. Harry smiled a little as the blond went to his place with a defiant stride, daring them to consider him property.

Kingfisher looked at the spell, and then gestured at them both. “Come closer, this spell is rather different from the one used on house-elves. Right in front of the lectern.”

Draco didn’t move for a moment, and the Aurors jumped into the amphitheatre after him. The blond scowled as they gripped his upper arms and manoeuvred him into place; he wasn’t fighting, but he held his body stiff and unhelpful. He set out his chin mulishly as they forced him into standing next to Harry in front of the lectern, close enough to touch.

“Right, here we go. I’m going to ask you both some questions, and your response must be ‘I will’. Draco, that includes you, and if you don’t participate I’ll have to ask these nice gentleman to insist that you behave.” 

Draco scowled at the delicate emphasis Kingfisher placed on ‘insist’. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not stupid. I’ll play along.”

“Good,” Kingfisher said, smiling. “Don’t worry too much about this; it’s not a binding magical contract, it’s just the ceremony to makeyou both master and slave. You’re neither of you held to the specifics.” The Ministry wizard waved his wand and the green glow started to thread its away around and between them.

“Harry Potter, will you keep Draco Malfoy with you, and let his life be part of yours?”

“I will.”

“Draco Malfoy, will you stay with Harry Potter, and let him direct your life?”

Draco’s expression was half anger, half apprehension. Then Harry guessed he’d remembered the words _not a binding magical contract_ , because his tense shoulder muscles relaxed slightly and he replied, “I will.”

“Harry Potter, will you treat Draco Malfoy as yours, and protect him from others as is your responsibility?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “I will.” He hadn’t thought about that, but he supposed it made sense. Draco wouldn’t have a wand any more, and since he was a pureblood that would make him especially helpless. Harry had a responsibility to him now.

“Draco Malfoy, will you serve Harry Potter in all things, and obey him always as befits a slave?”

Draco glared. “I will,” he bit out.

“Harry Potter, will you take Draco Malfoy as your own, and acknowledge him as your true slave?”

“I will.”

“Draco Malfoy, will you accept that you belong to Harry Potter, and acknowledge him as your rightful master?”

There was a pause. Harry thought he saw a wetness in Draco’s eyes. Just before the Aurors moved, he shut his eyes and rasped out: “I will.”

Kingfisher waved his wand, and a gold collar appeared, spinning in the air. “Put it on him, Mr Potter,” Kingfisher said.

Harry grinned a bit. _A_ collar?! _Maybe I could get one of those rings to say ‘Property of Harry Potter’._ He plucked the collar out of the air. It was in two half-rings, partially connected at the front, with a hook at the back. 

“Turn around, Draco,” Harry ordered. Draco glowered, obviously not wanting to obey orders – and if he had any sense, his instincts were screaming at him not to present the back of his neck to Harry. He did it, though, even if it was slow. Harry reached round, under his chin, pulling the collar around the vulnerable neck. He hooked it round, and instantly the hook melded into the gold, leaving a perfectly smooth metal ring circumventing Draco’s neck, marking him as owned.

“This is yours.” One of the Aurors handed Harry a wand – Draco’s, presumably. The grey eyes were fixed on it. Harry smiled, watching Draco as he slowly caressed the length of the wood – and then snapped it in one movement. 

Draco’s gasp was barely audible over the _snap_ of wood breaking. His head snapped up, grey eyes glaring. Harry smirked at him. That was it – Draco’s last hope of escaping was gone.

“There you go then,” Kingfisher said gleefully, oblivious to the swirling emotions in the room. “All done and nice and quick. The collar will stop him going through the wards, and tighten if he tries to disobey your orders.” Draco gave a gasp of horror, but no one even glanced over. “Any time you want to go Mr Potter, you can.”

~*~

Potter looked at Draco, and smiled. He spun and walked out of the room, tossing over his shoulder, “come, Draco.”

Potter stayed where he was, arms crossed huffily. He was not going to follow just because Potter had told him to, that was for damn sure. Potter stopped a few metres from the door, looked at him, and smiled, tapping his foot. Draco looked at him, glowering sullenly. Potter just waited.

Draco tried not to give any indication of discomfort, but after less than half a minute he was fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot. Still he didn’t move though, and Potter watched as Draco felt his cheeks get redder and redder. Soon he was panting, shoulders moving, face pained, and Potter could actually see the collar tightening, cutting off his air. Draco still refused to follow, though, so Potter rapped out, “follow me. Now.”

One choked-off breath and Draco was running to get to his master. Potter laughed softly in amusement. Draco was bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air. Hearing Potter laugh, he managed to force himself into a standing position and gave a grey-eyed glower. Potter just ignored it, turning and walking towards the lifts.

His order was still in effect, and Draco had no choice but to follow him. He walked as slowly as the collar would let him get away with, though, so he was several feet behind Potter. Still, he couldn’t avoid the lift forever, and soon he and Potter were crowded close together in the confined space.

_Oh, no._ Draco suddenly registered what this meant. They were taking the Ministry route – they’d get out in the main foyer and go back to the manor by Floo, using one of the public fireplaces. Ministry workers, visiting foreigners, _journalists_ would see him like this, with the bright gold of the slave collar glinting painfully obviously over his dreary Azkaban-grey robes. 

“We’re going to the Department of Law Enforcement,” Potter told him in an undertone, “I need to see Gawain Robards.”

Draco swallowed. Aurors. That was just great, his humiliation was now complete. Besides, it wasn’t safe for him there – they all hated him, both for his crimes against Hogwarts and his surname. They’d no doubt be full of glee to see him enslaved. Still – he remembered what had happened back at the manor, when he’d been taken to be shown to Potter. He’d told off that Auror for hitting him. Maybe it would be OK.

The lift _pinged_ and the two of them stepped out into a large room, divided up into cubicles where the Aurors worked. Plenty of them were empty, with their resident workers out on field assignments, but there were still more than enough Aurors around to make Draco feel anxious.

They started down the wide aisle, Potter seemingly completely unaware of the scrutiny they were under. Draco walked about seven feet behind him again, not wanting to show willing, or seem like he needed protection. But he swallowed under the gimlet stares.

The contempt emanating from the Aurors seemed to shift and change as he followed Potter towards Robards’ office. Draco realised what it was as the whispers increased, and derisive grins started to grow beneath the hard looks. They were registering his collar, recognising what had been done to him. Draco saw a brown-haired wizard whisper in the ear of a fellow Auror, both of them looking at him. They snickered and Draco blushed angrily.

Suddenly one of the Aurors banged into him, his shoulder impacting on Draco’s hard. Draco fell against the wall with a grunt of pain, unable to stay upright. He closed his eyes in humiliation, but forced himself straight again. Draco attempted to walk as though nothing had happened, but he could feel how pink his face was. He looked round at the Auror who’d shoved him. The man was walking on without looking back, his face blank. No doubt if Draco said anything, he’d just say it was an accident.

The Aurors were all softly snickering, and Draco raged inwardly. It wasn’t his fault, damn it! Draco had been feeling distinctly woozy ever since the ceremony. His stomach was tight and painful with stress, but the loss of his heir’s connection to the magics of his home had affected him far more. He felt as though part of his mind had been blanked out. The nausea of his lack of awareness rolled through Draco again and he swallowed.

Potter looked round, frowning, at the noise. He’d obviously registered the Aurors’ laughter. But Draco was walking calmly, his face blank. The Aurors, seeing Potter’s expression, quickly stopped watching, turning round and pretending to work, their faces as neutral as Draco’s. Potter frowned a little deeper for a moment and then turned around. 

They reached the Head Auror’s office, and Potter directed Draco to one of the chairs outside it. Draco sat uncomfortably and kept his chin high, staring out of the window while he waited. Some of the nervous tension began to drain from his body as boredom set in.

Twenty minutes after he’d entered Potter stormed out of the office with a face like thunder. Every single muscle in Draco’s body tensed up again with a snap as Potter grabbed his arm and dragged him into a standing position. “Come on,” he snapped, green eyes flashing, and headed for the door.

Draco followed swiftly. Potter didn’t look back; his shoulders were tense and he didn’t seem to be thinking about Draco at all. The Aurors were watching again, even if it was now more discreet, and the whispers and laughs were still there. In an attempt to salvage his dignity, Draco raised his chin, attempting to ignore the hot flush he could feel on his cheeks. He was a Malfoy, no matter what had been taken from him. He outclassed these people by his birth alone. He was _not_ going to be humiliated by what they thought of him. Draco kept his eyes and chin up proudly, attempting to reproduce his father’s most arrogant walk.

This probably made what happened next inevitable. Someone sent a furtive jinx, and Draco tripped, falling hard to his knees on the marble floor. Laughter broke out again and Draco coloured, humiliated. He pushed himself up, silently promising himself revenge.

Potter had turned once more, and he saw Draco rising. He obviously cottoned on to what had just happened; his face instantly flushed with possessive anger, annoyance that others had interfered with his slave. He looked around with an angry glare, but must have realised his chances of finding out which Auror had sent the trip jinx were nil. 

Potter strode back to him and seized Draco’s upper arm, tugging him along. Draco struggled almost automatically, but Potter didn’t even look at him, just kept walking, dragging the blond in his wake. 

Draco slowed, scowling. He was certain Potter was just taking his irritation out on him. “Hurry up,” Potter spat without looking back.

Draco sped up; he might not want to, but he wasn’t stupid enough to give Potter more reason to hurt him. They entered the lift, Potter keeping his grip on Draco’s arm tight. The blond glared but stayed still.

The lift doors opened once more, this time on the Ministry lobby. Draco swallowed, seeing the various workers and visitors out there. Potter gave him a swift glance then walked out, keeping his hold on Draco’s upper arm. At the blond’s resistance Potter tightened his grip harshly, his fingers digging painfully into the tender skin. Draco gave a small gasp and kept up.

The pair went and stood in a queue for one of the fireplaces kept blazing at all times for Floo travel. Draco was surprised for a moment at someone as famous as Potter doing the plebian thing instead of using his celebrity to travel from a private Floo. Draco could feel his body prickling with awareness of the stares. Whispers were coming from everyone else in the crowded lobby, making it sound like a breeze was running through it.

Potter seemed completely unaware of this. He just stood stolidly, his grip on Draco never wavering. At least the queue didn’t take long. Draco could tell the people ahead of them were excited at Potter’s presence, but his thousand-yard stare and angry body language unnerved them enough that they were also eager to escape it.

When it was their turn, Draco could feel Potter’s reluctance to let go of him to get the Floo powder from its jar. The brunet tossed some in, violently enough to make the green flames flare. Potter grinned maliciously at Draco as he intoned, “Malfoy Manor. Maybe I should change it to Potter Manor, what do you think?”

Draco glared spitefully in response, but he knew Potter could probably see his pain at the loss of his family home; for a moment the green eyes looked startled. Then he gripped the blond’s shoulder and directed them both into the Floo.

Ministry Floos were known for their slowness – in any London restaurant there was usually an aggrieved commuter complaining about it. This one went pretty quickly, though, and in no time the pair arrived in Malfoy Manor’s little entrance parlour for the Floo. Draco kept his balance with ease born of a childhood’s practice, but Potter stumbled a bit. He pushed down heavily on Draco’s shoulder trying to keep his balance, forcing the blond to bend as they emerged. Draco glared. He’d better not think he was getting away with that sort of shit all the time – this was _Draco’s_ home. 

Hmm. It occurred to Draco that possibly Potter had made a mistake bringing him here so soon. He hated being here like this – walking these halls, where his ancestors had strode so proudly, in a collar was not an experience he’d ever hoped to have. But this was Draco’s home turf. He knew the navigating system of the library, the temperaments of the house elves, the location of the secret passageways. Maybe continuing his everlasting battle against Potter would be easier than he’d thought; Draco never felt more secure than when he was somewhere familiar. His ‘master’ had just made this a home game.

~*~

Draco adjusted his dreary grey Azkaban robes, dusting them off and peering down at them to make sure they were presentable. Harry gave a soft, derisive laugh, shaking his head in mocking amusement. Draco looked up with a scowl at the sound. “What?”

“Ever the Malfoy, aren’t you,” Harry sneered. “Just look at you. Marked, orphaned, imprisoned, stripped of all possessions and enslaved – ” He watched Draco’s face throughout this cruel litany, seeing his face change from smouldering anger to pain to a careful blankness, and noting him barely conceal a flinch at the harsh words. “Yet you’re still fiddling with your pathetic prison robes to try and look your best.”

Draco’s grey eyes narrowed, boring into Harry. “Fuck you, Potter,” he spat.

Harry whipped out his wand and put the tip of it against the hollow of Draco’s throat, just below his shining collar. Draco’s grey eyes flared with nerves. He leaned back a bit, trying to avoid the touch of the wand, but otherwise didn’t move.

“I don’t want to damage you too badly, Draco,” Harry stated, his voice cold and hard as a marble statue. His green eyes had gone flat with menace. “But I own you and can do as I wish with you. Do not be foolish enough to tempt me to punish you. You will treat me with respect. Is that clear, slave?”

Draco swallowed, his expression showing just a hint of anxiousness. But then he seemed to recover, probably reminding himself that this was _his_ home turf, and he wasn’t going to give ground to Harry Potter just yet. The blond arched an eyebrow. “So when you’re in a position of power your speech patterns echo Snape’s,” he drawled, his tone insolent because of its very lightness. “How interesting.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed at this, and his wand dug in painfully to the tender skin of Draco’s neck. “Don’t make the mistake of pushing me, slave. You have _no_ idea what I’m capable of.”

Draco met his eyes. “Betraying one of your best friends’ primary ideals for one, _clearly_.”

Harry’s mouth tightened. Clearly a year hiding out alone had done nothing to dull Draco’s talent for finding everything you were sensitive about and poking at it. His superiority complex seemed pretty evident too, or he’d not have tried to provoke Harry by mentioning the rift between him and Hermione he’d somehow guessed at.

Well, _that_ at least Harry could do something about. He was going to get rid of it, he was going to have Draco amenable and submissive and compliant, if it was the last thing he did.

Harry’s hand tightened on his wand, and for a second he considered hurting Draco. Even if he wasn’t quite ready for _crucio_ , he could use a stinging hex or something, and it would be a nice shock to the system. But no... that could well just serve to prove to Draco that Harry wasn’t an effective master, if he couldn’t control his slave at all without the use of violence. And he _did_ have the power here; he just had to remember that himself. Wasn’t that why he’d accepted all this in the first place? Because he loved the idea of this power over him?

He smiled wolfishly. “Quiet, slave.” This time he noticed Draco’s barely perceptible flinch at the word. “And I may not _want_ to damage you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. Besides, there are plenty of ways I can make you hurt without truly damaging you. I think I’ll enjoy them, too.” His malicious grin became a leer.

Draco’s cheeks flushed pink as he understood what Harry was hinting at. Harry stepped just a tiny bit closer and Draco flinched back, his eyes going wide with shock. The blood rushed from his face, leaving him looking paler than usual, and almost ill at the realisation. Astonishment was still written all over his face; it was clear he hadn’t expected his master to want anything sexual from him. He’d anticipated attempts to hurt and humiliate him, but not this. Still, what better way for Harry to do that than rape?

“And what do you mean by that?” he responded, finally getting a handle on the situation, chin rising in defiance. His grey eyes were narrowed, but Harry could clearly see the fear there behind the veneer of anger. 

“Guess,” Harry drawled. He was rewarded with a flicker of satisfaction as Draco faltered, skin still noticeably pasty.

Harry was improvising here, barely knowing what he was going to say next. His only goal was to keep Draco unsettled, anxious – under control. He glanced down at the parchment with Malfoy’s vital statistics – age, measurements, qualifications – to give himself more time to think.   
He decided to take Draco to his room – well, perhaps cell was a better description – and show him where he was going to sleep. “Follow me, slave,” Harry said. Draco rolled his eyes but followed quickly. In contrast to his dragging, reluctant gait before, the blond was now clearly making the effort to keep up with him. Apparently walking a few steps behind Harry didn’t sit well with him.

Harry watched Draco out of the corner of his eye as they went through the Manor towards the west wing, seeing his expression change as they walked. The Aurors had changed many things – paintings, vases, side tables were gone or half destroyed by spells designed to test them or provoke dark magic. The luxurious little touches that had populated the wide corridors of Draco’s home were almost entirely gone. 

Draco’s expression of anxiety and anger at Harry when they’d left the room changed as the pair went, horror slowly seeping into his eyes, as well as the odd flash of indignation when he saw the absence of particular heirlooms. By the time they reached the main hall of the west wing, with the master bedroom at the end of it, Draco was breathing hard, his cheeks touched with pink and eyes steely grey with anger and the echo of pain at the loss of so many things. His head obviously full of these emotions, he made to automatically go down the hall towards his parents’ bedroom.

“Stop,” Harry rapped out. Draco did so, rolling his eyes and exhaling in irritation, it seemed, at Harry’s very existence. Harry glared. Draco was quite obviously preoccupied with the changes in his home and barely aware of Harry’s existence. His eyes were clouded with thought as he came back to Harry’s side.

Harry opened the door to his right, on to a small room which was once a pretty little parlour to take tea in. It was now almost empty, but there was a small, high bed against the window. “Get in,” Harry said shortly.

Draco looked in, then whipped his head round to stare at Harry furiously, realising what this meant. “No!”

Harry narrowed his eyes. His temper had been shortening all day and rather than wait for Draco’s collar to tighten, Harry grabbed his upper arm and dragged the blond in, taking him by surprise. Draco struggled, tugging at his arm, but Harry had the advantage after a year of war and held him tightly even after they were inside. Draco cursed and started to seriously fight, but Harry tightened his grip to the point of pain and reached for his wand with the other hand. At that Draco stilled, mouth tight.

“This is where you’ll sleep. Is that clear, slave?” Harry let go of Draco, standing back. He gave Draco a warning look, but the blond had never known when to stop when it came to Harry Potter. He gave the room a sneering look. “You’ve completely destroyed my mother’s tea room, Potter.”

Harry slapped him across the face so hard he nearly fell. “Call me ‘sir’. Or ‘master’ if you prefer,” he added with a small smirk.

Draco actually gasped. “I’ll never call you sir, you – ”

“Mr Potter, then.”

“NO!”

“I will give you time to think about it,” Harry said. “You’ll think more clearly when you’ve recovered from the bonding. Sleep. I’ll tell the elves to bring you lunch here, and dinner tonight.”

“Fuck you!”

Harry nearly hit him again, he was so overwrought. But that would prove Hermione right. He wasn’t going to abuse Draco like that; taunting Draco like he’d done Harry was much more what he’d intended. So he merely gave Draco an Avada Kedavra coloured glare and turned to go.

He opened the door, reaching for his wand to lock the blond in. Seeing what was about to happen, Draco ran for the door, his face pink with anger and rising distress. Harry slammed the door in his face and locked it.

The doorknob clattered as Draco pulled at it frantically, his yells distorted with anger. He screamed futile insults through the heavy wood, knowing he was trapped and imprisoned once more. Harry walked away, not knowing if he felt pleased or guilty – perhaps both, but pretending indifference.

~*~

He asked Heggy for lunch, and the elf joyfully obeyed, obviously happy to provide a service for her undemanding new master. She also agreed to make lunch and dinner for Draco, and bring them to him in his room. Harry was rather enjoying taunting Draco and flaunting his power over him, but he knew perfectly well that should he starve him, the small guilty voice at the back of his head (the one that sounded so much like Hermione on occasion) would bother him until he could no longer crush it with feelings of entitlement and savoured control.

The lunch was absolutely divine – naturally, these elves had had to live up to the standards of the famously vain and exacting Narcissa Malfoy. Harry wasn’t even sure what he was eating, but it involved wine and chicken and he hadn’t enjoyed a meal this much since Mrs Weasley’s last feast.

As he ate, he pondered what to do with his afternoon. It was weird how time seemed to stretch lately. He was finding his new time and relaxation wonderful, and he certainly deserved them after all he’d been through, but Harry just wasn’t used to it. His time had for a year been almost constantly taken up by research on Horcruxes, training in duelling and Occlumency, and the occasional life-threatening trip for a piece of Voldemort’s soul; and now that was done, this was the first time he’d not been kept busy by company and celebration. The idea that he had time all to himself was novel, but lovely.

It occurred to Harry that Draco had nothing – pretty much everything seemed to have been seized by the Ministry. This included clothing, and he could hardly go on wearing those tattered prison robes indefinitely. 

That settled that, then. The afternoon would be spent on his first post-war trip to Diagon Alley.


	3. Chapter 3

As Harry stepped into Leaky Cauldron, he had a sudden, brief flash of deja vu. This was how he’d entered the wizarding world for the first time, those seven years ago. In retrospect Harry was incredulous at his own naivete. He’d been such an innocent, still almost oblivious to Voldemort and aware of death only as the force that kept his parents away from him.

Now he’d grown from that nervous, innocent boy into a confident warrior, a murderer, a hero even. He’d become part of the wizarding world to the extent that he had a human slave and house elves; he owned the entirety of three old wizarding families. It may not have been a supremely happy seven years, but Harry couldn’t deny the depth of the change in him. He was no longer a victim. He’d escaped the Dursleys, and Voldemort was gone forever.

There was another important difference from his first excursion to Diagon Alley. Harry now knew enough magic to create a glamour. It was basic, since he usually relied on his Invisibility Cloak when he wanted to go unnoticed. But his scar was hidden, and his jet-black hair had faded to ditchwater brown.

Harry quickly walked to the back of the pub, and into Diagon Alley. He smiled as he entered it – the fearful atmosphere from the last few times he’d been here was gone. Grim purple Ministry posters were vanishing, and so were the sombre closed-down shop fronts and the seedy merchants. People actually looked cheerful. It was brilliant.

Harry felt his heart lift in his chest as he passed happy wizards. It skipped a beat when he saw the Daily Prophet’s headline, on a paper tucked under someone’s arm – _WHAT’S NEXT FOR THE MAN-WHO-LIVED?_ He found himself hoping fervently that his glamour held – get caught now and he’d be lucky to escape the autograph-seekers alive.

Harry speeded up his gait, wanting to finish his shopping and get out of Diagon Alley. But as he saw Madam Malkin’s, he stopped cold. It had closed due to the war about nine months ago, and apparently hadn’t re-opened yet.

He muttered a swearword under his breath as he turned, earning a scandalised look for the witch behind him and a fascinated one from her small son. Harry couldn’t suppress a grin as she dragged the boy away, shooting him scowls over her shoulder. He wondered what she’d say if she knew it was him.

Seeing only one thing to do, Harry turned and headed back to the Leaky Cauldron. He went up to the bar, having to wait while Tom served various loud, cheerful punters. Eventually Tom turned to him.

Harry knew he’d have to get a drink, he couldn’t just ask his question and leave. He’d opened his mouth to automatically request a butterbeer, when he thought – no. Harry was an adult even in the Muggle world now; hell, the _Prophet_ was calling him the _Man_ Who Lived. He was certainly old enough to drink something other than Butterbeer. Harry nodded decisively to himself and ordered a pint.

As Tom drew it, Harry asked, “can you tell me where to go to buy clothes, please? Malkin’s is closed and I need to get some stuff for this guy.”

Tom looked at him as he handed over the pint, and Harry abruptly felt very naked. The tiny dark eyes twinkled and Harry was certain Tom had seen through his disguise. “I’d suggest Unuze Alley, most of the shops there have re-opened, or even stuck it out during the war. The turnoff’s by the post office, on the right.”

Harry nodded. “Cheers.” He drank his beer swiftly, then headed back out.

When he got to Unuze Alley, Harry stopped and blinked. These shops were _not_ like the ones on Diagon Alley – or Knockturn for that matter. They were dramatic, eye-catching and faintly ridiculous – Harry imagined the proprietors were combinations of the Weasley twins and Luna Lovegood’s father.

The shop fronts were weird and wonderful. There was a shop apparently devoted to love – the stock included love potions and gifts for sweethearts. The window was crawling with what looked like giant ants; the sign above them screamed _LOVEBUGS!_ Giant pink bubbles shaped like hearts were wafting from the doorway.

Another sold quills. In one window was a massive page, with different quills scurrying across it busily. There were all different sizes and styles, from the functional white-feather types Hermione favoured, to a tiny gold one that flashed in the sunlight. Harry’s personal favourite was a violently red quill which steamed as it wrote. In the other window was displayed a gigantic, gorgeous quill with a feather that looked to have been taken from a peacock the size of a rhinoceros.

Harry tore his gaze away and tried to think. Now Madam Malkin’s was out, what did he want to buy Draco? He’d heard Narcissa Malfoy mention Twillfit and Tatting’s before, but Harry didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to buy Draco posh, expensive clothes like he’d had before. They were going to be Harry’s choices, not his.

It began to dawn on Harry just how much control over Draco he really had. He’d understood the big things – his right to torture, starve, _kill_ without sanction. But it was the little things that truly made Draco his slave. He could choose what Draco wore, what he ate, when he slept; the blond had no say in his life at all. Harry felt a brief shiver at the idea of being so totally controlled.

Another window display – this one of singing flowers – caught his eyes and his thoughts were driven out of his mind. Harry continued down the cobbled street, before stopping short.

_Mad Martin’s – For All Your Muggle Needs!_ The declaration on the large shop’s front was in plain black paint, not the curling purple most of the other wizarding shops favoured. Harry would never have thought a shop with Muggle goods would have any custom in the wizarding world, but perhaps Muggleborns got nostalgic. 

Then Harry noticed the miniskirt and top in the window, and felt his lips curl into a smirk worthy of Draco himself. He’d dress Draco in Muggle clothes! He’d _hate_ it. Harry decided he was a genius.

He entered the shop with a grin on his face, and looked around, wide-eyed. Harry hadn’t expected much from a wizarding ‘Muggle’ shop to be honest – he’d almost anticipated galoshes and scuba diving suits. Instead Harry saw a shop filled with clothes that wouldn’t have looked out of place in any Muggle high street. There were T-shirts, skirts, shorts and jackets; trousers, dresses and even jeans. There was bright cotton and denim instead of the linen wizards favoured. The clothes of the wizarding world seemed little affected by the seasons; to see a wizarding shop stocking bright, skimpy summer clothes seemed like a miracle.

Harry grinned as he went though the rails, picking out anything that struck his fancy. He grabbed lots of red and yellow, wanting to see Draco dressed in Gryffindor colours. He was quickly weighed down by clothes.

“Sir?” Harry turned at the squeaky voice. “Down here, sir.” Harry peered down to see an elf looking at him reproachfully.

“Er, hello,” he said awkwardly.

“I is happy to help sir. Is sir looking for something in particular?”

“Not really. I’m buying for someone who doesn’t own any clothes at all at the moment,” Harry explained, and tried to ignore the elf’s raised eyebrows. “I’m pretty much getting anything the right size.”

The elf nodded. “Would sir like me to shrink sir’s package and send it to his home? Flitty can send the bill there too.”

“That’d be great, actually.” Harry looked at the bundle of garments he was just about keeping a hold on and wondered how he’d thought he was getting it back to Malfoy Manor. He coloured as he realised that worse, the bag of Galleons in his pocket was nowhere near enough to pay for everything on the spot. Thank God for helpful house-elves.

The elf – Flitty, presumably – nodded, and the clothes vanished from Harry’s hands. Harry looked around some more. After Ron and Hermione’s almost constant company during the Horcrux hunt it felt odd not to have them here. He had utterly relied on Ron, with his strategic skills and his jokes, and Hermione’s intelligence and the way she always thought of everything, during the war. Harry felt sure he’d forget some vital thing that Hermione would have done in an instant.

The next second, this thought was confirmed. Pants and socks – he’d bought neither. Luckily Mad Martin’s stocked these – Harry could see no difference between them and the wizarding variety, but what did he know about fashion? He grabbed a pack of Y-fronts and some trouser socks.

“These too, please,” he said, handing them to Flitty. “Thanks very much.” Harry headed for the door after Flitty’s squeaked reply. At least that was done with.

What now? Harry wandered along Unuze Alley for a stretch, his mind going blank as he relaxed into the calmness of having no Horcrux to find or Order member to save.

Then he saw _Eros_.

Harry wondered for a moment how he’d missed the place before, but it wasn’t really that surprising. The rest of the shops on Unuze gave off an impression of bright colour and energy, of wanting to be noticed. Masquerade, on the other hand, gave Harry the distinct impression that it wasn’t wanting so much as _waiting_ to be noticed. It had its own peculiar brand of intensity, but the shop looked as if it was only visible if you paid attention. 

The windows displayed costumes, but this wasn’t the sort of place you took your six-year-old when they were invited to a dressing-up party. The costumes were all adult-sized and very recognisable stereotypes. A nurse, a nun, a teacher, a pirate... Harry had to admit, studying them, that the outfits were all very well made – there was a caveman outfit that looked to his unschooled eye like real bear fur. This fact did nothing to lessen his blush. Harry could hardly believe that the wizarding world, with its reactionary newspaper and conservative values, had a shop like this.

He might have grown up before his time, but Harry was an eighteen year old. It took under thirty seconds from seeing the shop to being inside it.

He looked around in awe. There were really raunchy things inside. The windows seemed to be almost smothered by the sheer number of costumes, and so the place felt shadowy and out of the way; _forbidden_ in that special sense that sent a tingle of excitement up Harry’s spine.

He saw bunny outfits and evening dresses, leather trousers and collars. Harry couldn’t see a proprietor, so he wandered, examining the underwear. There was feminine lingerie on offer – maidenly white lace or siren’s satin in deepest crimson. There was underwear for men too – silky briefs or boxers as well as the requisite thongs. Harry eyed a slinky, Slytherin green pair of briefs speculatively and grinned to himself.

“Would you like some assistance, sir?” This voice was definitely human, and it was husky as hell. Harry turned ruby red and tried to breathe deeply. A woman running this place had to be a vamp. Harry prayed to the god of sex that Romilda Vane hadn’t somehow ended up here. 

He turned to face the inevitable vision of loveliness, and blinked. Somehow this was not what he’d pictured. Instead of a creature of predatory sexuality, there was... well. She was a woman. But she looked like a librarian. Her lipstick was not passion-red but a sort of fuchsia shade and her watery blue eyes seemed politely inquiring, not filled with heat. The woman was dressed in a cardigan that reminded Harry of his Weasley jumpers, and a long skirt. Her hair was in a bun.

And then there was the fact that she looked about ninety years old.

“Uh... no thanks,” Harry managed, aware his expression was probably not the look of neutral politeness required. “I’m just browsing.”

The little old woman nodded sweetly and vanished behind the stacks of naughty underwear. Harry shook his head.

There was another rack of fantasy outfits further back. Harry blushed again as he saw two different Harry Potter outfits – one Gryffindor Seeker set of Quidditch leathers, and some red robes that looked like the ones he’d worn on the day he defeated Voldemort. They both came with accessories, like a pair of round glasses and a stick-on lightning bolt scar.

That was when he saw the French maid’s outfit. It was a tiny black frock made out of some slightly silken, slippery material, with a white lace apron. Harry couldn’t stop looking. The dress was obscenely short, and it came with black, silky French knickers. Then there were the black stilettos and the inevitable fluffy feather duster. Moving closer, Harry saw details that made his mouth go dry. The back of the dress was pretty much non-existent – it swooped down, only covering the small of the wearer’s back. Ditto with the front – the frock left the ‘maid’ bare until just below the navel. This outfit was obviously designed by a genius; Harry would be convinced of this by those truly inspired nipple clamps alone.

Making one of those impulsive decisions he was famed for, Harry called for the little librarian running the shop, and gave her the paper with Draco’s vital statistics. 

And grabbed a few pairs of silky briefs. Including those green ones.

~*~

Harry smiled to himself as he Flooed back into Malfoy Manor’s little receiving room. That was one hell of a productive shopping trip. Maybe he should go see Draco and tell him he was getting some clothes of his own... as well as a little outfit well suited to his new station.

 _No._ It might be more fun to introduce Draco to Muggle clothes as a surprise; and besides, Harry still wasn’t sure about presenting him with that maid’s outfit. There was something of a potential for disaster there if he wasn’t confident in his ability to make the petulant blond behave.

Harry decided to explore Malfoy Manor a little more. He barely knew this enormous house he was living in, and sooner or later that would undoubtedly become a problem.

He was standing on the ground floor trying to decide which way to go when one of the house elves appeared with a _pop_. Harry jumped, and hoped he wasn’t expected to know its – her? – name yet.

“Flitty from Mad Martin’s brought your clothes, Mr Harry Potter sir,” she squeaked. “Heggy is wondering where to put them, sir.”

“Er – just put them in my room for now. Don’t put them away or anything, though.” Heggy nodded and vanished before Harry remembered to say ‘please’.

He shrugged and went exploring. Harry was standing in one of the endless, apparently pointless little rooms on the first floor, trying to decide whether touching the sinister but interesting-looking desk was too risky, when he heard Ron’s voice calling him.

He rushed from the room and followed Ron’s voice. Eventually he came out in what looked like a small parlour, and grinned, seeing Ron’s head amidst the flames. With his vivid hair it looked as though his head was on fire.

“Hey! How are you?”

“Good. Mum’s still treating us all like princes, she’s so glad we made it through the war in one piece.”

_More or less_ , Harry thought, but didn’t say, not wanting to bring the mood down. “I’m glad. Er...how’s Hermione?”

Ron winced in sympathy. “Still angry. She was here earlier, stamping around and muttering about double standards, but she’s off with her parents at the moment. I wouldn’t worry, Harry; I’ve pissed her off loads of times and she’s always got over it.”

“That’s _why_ I’m worried. She might get angry with you all the time but she doesn’t usually yell at me,” Harry pointed out. “Anyway, hopefully she’ll get over it when she sees this isn’t starting some great new wave of slave-owners.”

“You never know,” Ron grinned, “maybe it’ll started a fashion. You are the Boy-Who-Defeated-Voldemort.” Harry made a face.

“So how’s life with the ferret? Is he being a brat or have you taken him in hand?” Ron’s grin became vicious, and Harry smiled a little uncomfortably.

“It’s going OK. He’s furious, obviously, but he can’t really do anything. It’s pretty fun showing him who’s got the power here, actually.”

“Where is he? I’d _love_ to see him. Anyway, if I was you I’d have him following me and waiting on me hand and foot.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’ve got him locked in his little room sulking. I’ll let him out tomorrow, when I’m ready to deal with him. You wanna come over tomorrow and see?”

“Brilliant! It’ll be great to talk to you properly, mate. And see Malfoy, obviously. What time?”

Harry’s eyes gleamed with an uncharacteristically malicious glee as a thought occurred to him. “One, say. We can have lunch and I’ll get him to serve you.”

“Cool. See you then.” Ron’s head withdrew from the fire with a crackle.

Harry smiled and left the room.

~*~

Harry tapped the lock with his wand and opened the door. The instant he stepped through it, the yells began. Draco was standing on the mattress screaming at him, hair in disarray and cheeks pink with fury. Harry barely paid attention to the sound beyond a wince for his poor eardrums, concentrating on looking around instead.

The house elves had clearly brought Draco meals as he’d asked. The lunch tray seemed to have been thrown across the room by Draco – the mashed potatoes were still stuck to the wall. He’d given up over dinner, though; Harry could see the empty plates on the tray by the bed. Harry wasn’t surprised. He doubted any decent food had come Draco’s way since his capture.

He finally tuned in to Draco’s screeches, frowning in irritation at the blond’s shouting and raving which hadn’t abated at all, despite Harry’s blatant lack of interest.

“ – _dare_ you think you can do this to me?! To my fucking FAMILY HOME?! You have _no right_ to be here – you’re not fit to lick my parents’ boots! I can’t believe I was ever grateful to you for killing the Dark Lord!” At that, Harry blinked, meeting Draco’s almost frantic grey eyes as he continued to shout. “You might be brave, Potter, you might be powerful, but you’re a _thief!_ Tell me, what does the Mudblood think of this?”

At the word _mudblood_ , Harry’s mouth twisted. “You’ll wear these,” he rapped out, unshrinking the bags of clothes and chucking them to the floor carelessly, uncaring as they spilled. He turned round and stormed out, almost forgetting to lock the blond in again. He slammed the heavy door shut on the sound of Draco’s angry sobs.

~*~

Harry glared up at the canopy above his head. After leaving Draco he’d gone straight to his en suite to brush his teeth, in an attempt to get rid of the bad taste the encounter had left in his mouth. Now he was lying there in the Malfoys’ king-sized bed, staring up and stewing.

Harry shifted, turning over for the third time in as many minutes. He couldn’t sleep. The silk sheets felt all wrong on his skin, slippery and cool after the warm cotton of the Burrow. He felt weird, sleeping on silk sheets in his battered pyjama bottoms, the same ones that bad been everywhere with him while he was searching for Horcruxes. And at the end of the day, sleeping in this room was creepy. He wasn’t used to this kind of luxury, and it felt even odder knowing this had been the bedroom of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. This was the very bed in which Lucius had snuggled up happily, dreaming about torturing Muggles.

Harry tried to force his mind blank. He’d improved exponentially at this over the last year – Snape’s Occlumency training finally took. _“Or you finally put a touch of effort in,”_ he heard Snape’s voice say.

Despite his new status as an Occlumens, Harry couldn’t get Draco out of his head. He kept seeing the pink face and accusing grey eyes, hearing Draco’s anguished shouts.

Harry fluffed his pillow unnecessarily with a huff. He’d fought for all of this. This goosedown duvet and luxurious room were payment for a year of hard ground and harder battles, of sleeping bags and field rations. It had been _given_ to him. Whatever Draco said, he hadn’t stolen anything. And anyway, what gave Draco the right to all this luxury? What had he done to _earn_ the Malfoy estates? Nothing, that’s what. Harry had risked his life; Draco had just been born into the right family.

Harry nodded firmly to himself. This wasn’t stealing. Draco was just trying to unsettle him, as usual.

A pause.

Finally Harry got up with a loud huff. _Fine._ He went to find a guest room.

~*~

Next morning Harry was tired and a little grumpy, after all the effort he’d had to go through to find somewhere he could actually sleep. It was really rather nice to be here rather than the Burrow in that respect; there were no friends around who he had to make an attempt to be friendly with. There was only Draco, and he scarcely had to worry about controlling his irritability there.

He opened the door to the room, and stopped. Draco was sitting palely by the window, his arms curling loosely around his knees. He was staring out at the misty grounds, and he was totally still. Looking at him, Harry felt an odd swoop in his stomach, like he’d missed a step going downstairs. Draco wasn’t ever supposed to be still. Harry swallowed and slammed the door shut behind him, relishing Draco’s jerk.

“Get dressed,” Harry snapped, pulling clothes almost at random from the scattered pile on the floor and throwing them across the room to land haphazardly by Draco. The blond turned, his expression a symphony in scorn, and it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was preparing to sneer and snipe at any and all articles of clothing Harry provided. Then Draco looked at the clothes, and his glower was swallowed by confusion. 

He picked up one of the things Harry had chucked at him – a navy T-shirt – and looked at it, his expression bemused. Despite his lingering irritation, Harry bit back a smile. Draco looked utterly stymied by what confronted him. Maybe his Slytherin friends never wore this sort of thing.

“What are these, Potter?”

“Muggle clothes,” Harry replied, watching slyly for the pureblood’s reaction. “You’ll be wearing them from now on.”

Draco blanched and Harry grinned. “I – you – but – ” Draco spluttered. “I’m not wearing cheap, revolting Muggle clothes! I’ll catch rabies!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’ll wear what I tell you to wear, remember?” He went over, picking a white T-shirt off the ground as he walked. “Come on, get that off,” Harry said, gesturing at Draco’s pyjama top. He stood stolidly, waiting for Draco to move.

The blond scowled as he stripped off his shirt. “Pervert,” he muttered, ducking his head in slight embarrassment at Harry’s unwavering gaze. Draco almost snatched the T-shirt from Harry’s hands and shoved it on, obviously uncomfortable being shirtless in front of him. He looked at the clothes strewn near his bed, apparently in a hurry to get this over with so he wouldn’t be any more of a spectacle.

Harry knew the exact instant he saw the underwear. Draco’s eyes had been raking through the clothes, rapidly cataloguing and dismissing them, looking for something both recognisable and acceptable to his aristocratic tastes. The grey eyes hit a pair of briefs and froze, while a blush slowly worked its way up his neck.

“Problem, pet?” Harry inquired sweetly.

Draco threw him a dirty look. He shifted, still blushing and probably remembering Harry’s lecherousness the day before – someone with such unfettered access to his body buying him silk underwear clearly did not make him happy. But what could he say?

“No.”

“No, _master_ ,” Harry corrected, just for the hell of it.

Draco turned to him furiously, grey eyes sparking with defiance and mouth already open to tear strips off him. Harry shoved a pair of red shorts under his pointed nose, forestalling the rant.

“You – what are _those_?”

“Shorts.”

Draco snatched them out of his grasp in an only-child’s gesture, and stared at what he was holding. His face screwed up in confusion and Harry felt a rush of almost-affectionate amusement at his scrunched-up nose and confused eyes. He looked at Harry in bewilderment. “This is _underwear!_ ”

Harry laughed. “No, they’re shorts. Muggle short trousers. You wear them in the summer, when it’s hot. They’ve got to better than those heavy robes you lot wear.”

Draco looked at him suspiciously, as if he thought Harry was tricking him. He seemed to accept it, but gave the shorts a narrow-eyed glare. “They’re _red_ ,” he pointed out.

“Is there something wrong with red?” Harry asked pointedly.

“I’m not a bloody _Gryffindor_ ,” he snarled.

“Very true. You’re still going to wear those.”

Draco gave him a _look_ , but seemed to decide that the colour of his clothes wasn’t worth challenging him over. He was probably saving all that angry energy for a more opportune time. The blond’s shoulders relaxed a bit and he reached for the waistband of his grey bottoms.

Then he stopped. “Turn around!” Draco snapped, waving a hand. Harry considered refusing; Draco looked _good_ shirtless, regardless of his recent experiences, and after all the blond could hardly force him to turn. But Harry was recovering from his irritation, and Draco was rather cute with all his blustering and confusion; if Harry made him really furious he’d be far less entertaining. Harry smirked, dragging his green gaze slowly down the length of Draco’s body. The other boy shifted uncomfortably under his eyes. Then Harry smiled, and turned around.

He heard the rustle of cloth as Draco dropped his grey bottoms and got into the briefs and shorts. Harry turned back to face Draco as the blond asked, “what about shoes?”

Truthfully, Harry had completely forgotten about shoes – except for the black high heels on their way from Eros, but he was hardly going to admit that. Admitting a mistake at this point, while Draco was still defying him at every turn, could well prove fatal.

“Well?” Draco demanded. 

“And why would you need shoes, pet? You don’t go outside unless I say you can, and I don’t. So you can just stay barefoot.”

Draco gave him a look as foul as any Harry had ever seen. “Oh, I see. This is another of your twisted little power games, isn’t it? Keep me barefoot, so I look like a slave. Stop me going out, so I’m trapped. You think I don’t know what you’re doing? I’m Lucius Malfoy’s son, I know all about looking powerful..”

Harry was left a little off balance. That hadn’t been what he’d intended at all – the lack of shoes was due to forgetfulness, not cunning – but hey, if Draco thought he was that scheming, it could only be a good thing. 

“And,” Draco continued, “you’re going to have to give in. Or are you going to ban me from the sodding gardens?”

Harry frowned. “It depends on whether you’re good.” Draco opened his mouth and Harry kept talking, cutting him off. “Anyway you’re dressed well enough for breakfast. Follow me.”

Draco scowled but couldn’t ignore a direct order. The two of them left the bare room and made their way along corridors towards the large main dining room. It was really too big for the two of them; it had probably been used for dinner parties in Draco’s childhood, meeting old Death Eater chums and schmoozing politicians. Still, Harry was going to use it. He owned this place now, and he was going to _make_ himself comfortable with living this way.

Draco looked around as they went, seeing the damage done by the Aurors. Anything remotely dark or suspicious had been confiscated, meaning that little objects Draco never would have noticed until their absence were gone. A little end table had been taken because the Aurors had been mistrustful of the nature of the Thestrals carved on its sides. Draco missed the vase of white flowers that had always been there; Narcissus, because his father insisted that they always be growing in the gardens.

The portraits were gone too, at Harry’s request. It wasn’t just the loss of various things; the house itself had been hurt by the careless Aurors. The wood panelling was scraped, the floors scratched and scuffed. Draco swallowed. His mother would have been so upset; she’d always hated the raids, because they hurt the house itself as much as for the invasion of privacy.

Harry watched Draco’s reactions to the changes, and felt a guilty pang. He’d risked Death Eater discovery to visit Godric’s Hollow nearly a year ago; he understood about family homes. For Draco it must mean even more; he’d grown up here, generations of Malfoy history permeated its walls. For Ron, having what his family had passed down was a source of shame; for Draco it was clearly a matter of pride. The wounded grey eyes, for once guileless, showed the pain at the harmful indifference of those who’d invaded his home, who'd defiled something almost sacred.

Harry swallowed and told himself this was his home now. Besides, there were very good reasons for those confiscations.

Draco looked a little ill as he took in the changes to his family’s dining room. The furniture looked largely the same – the centre of the room was still the six-person, beautifully engraved mahogany table. Little side tables topped with expensive vases filled with flowers still stood against the wood-panelled walls. But the chairs that had lined the table had vanished, leaving just one, and every painting, no matter what it showed, had been removed.

He swallowed, obviously upset by the changes Harry had wrought. _Or even,_ Harry thought, watching him out of the corner of his eye, _that it’s still mostly the same, but it belongs to me now – and so does he._

Harry sat down in the single chair, which was at the head of the table, naturally. Draco stayed by the door, glaring as a lavish breakfast appeared in front of his master. “Where’s my food?” he demanded venomously. Harry heard the slight note of distress in his slave’s voice and wondered if he thought he’d have to stand and watch Harry eat, or even feed him himself.

Harry muttered a spell, jerking his wand. A low table appeared on the floor to its right, its mahogany and engravings matching the decor. On top of it was some buttered toast and water. Adequate, but nothing like the spread before Harry, and unlike Harry, Draco apparently did not merit the ancestral Malfoy crockery. That had to really burn. Harry had to hide a smirk before he turned to look at Draco. He was giving the table a narrow-eyed grey stare. 

“You’ll kneel at my side and eat there,” Harry told him.

Draco’s head whipped round. “No way!” he retorted loudly. “If you think I’m kneeling next to you, eating off that thing like – ”

“It’s the only way you’re getting any food,” Harry said calmly. “I won’t order you, but you’re going to have to give in eventually.”

He turned back to his embossed, silver plate, and started covering the Malfoy crest in the centre with grilled pineapple, plain yoghurt and toast. There was a lovely selection laid out in front of him – toast, kippers and porridge; various kinds of jam and different fruits; tea, coffee and orange juice. Harry glanced over to see Draco glaring at his toast, arms folded in front of his chest and jaw clenched.

Harry nonchalantly munched a pineapple ring, watching Draco covertly. He could see the struggle between hunger and pride in his tense muscles, furrowed blond brows, shifting stance. Eventually he must have decided that he’d have to give in sooner or later, so why stay hungry: he sank to his knees at Harry’s feet and picked up some toast.

Harry smiled to himself.

Draco was obviously irritated that Harry was controlling him so effortlessly; he began tapping annoyedly at the surface of his table. Harry glanced down in irritation, but decided that he wasn’t going to be goaded into a reaction.

As this was Draco Malfoy, the decision was, naturally, futile.

“So what are you going to do today?” Draco asked after a bit, still tapping. He was barely eating, too busy trying to bother Harry. “Lock me up again and see if I die of boredom? Go and see the Mudblood and the Weasel?”

Harry’s hands clenched on his cutlery. He’d have train him not to say ‘mudblood’ any more, but he wasn’t going to let Draco see his fury. He owned the blond, he shouldn’t be able to manipulate Harry like this.

“Tell me, have they started making halfbreed babies yet?” Draco continued, sounding revolted. “A pureblood and a mudblood – it’s practically bestiality.”

Harry whipped his head round and glowered furiously down at Draco, only to be brought up short by his little smirk. He was looking up at Harry with amused grey eyes, daring Harry to punish him.

Right, Harry thought grimly. _He is going to learn not to push me. I’m not going to back down, nor hurt him – I’m going to humiliate him._ Forcing the proud blond to kneel at his feet had been its own kind of rush. Harry was quite willing to take this up another notch. “Slave,” he rapped out.

Draco glanced up, defiance sparking in his eyes again. They widened as he saw Harry’s wand pointed straight between his eyes. “Get up,” Harry said softly. “I’ve decided you’re going to sit on my lap.”

Draco blushed furiously – whether with anger or embarrassment, Harry wasn’t sure, but it amused him all the same. The slave would have to do this eventually – the collar would make sure of that – but it should be interesting to see how long he held out. 

“I – ” Draco spluttered. Harry jerked his wand warningly just as the blond felt his collar begin to constrict. “Fine,” he muttered mutinously, levering himself up with a slight sigh of relief; the stone floor couldn’t be easy on his bare knees. Harry scooted his chair back to give him space and grinned, opening his arms in welcome and mockery. Draco looked a bit uncertain, and Harry guessed he didn’t know exactly what was expected.

“Come on, pet,” Harry said, still grinning. “Sit sideways, your legs should go over my left side.”

Draco sighed and obeyed. Harry smiled a little more gently as he felt the blond settle on to him, sitting stiffly with his hands in his lap. Harry wound his right arm around the blond’s waist and cuddled him, making Draco relax against him slightly.

Harry enjoyed the feeling of the warm, helpless weight atop him, the golden slave collar almost at his eye level. Draco sighed, apparently resigned to this (and maybe enjoying the contact a bit) and reached for some toast off Harry’s plate.

Harry instantly slapped his hand hard, making him withdraw it with an indignant cry. “Stop that!” Harry said sharply. Then he added more gently, “don’t take my food, pet. I’ll feed you.”

“I’m quite capable of feeding myself, Potter,” Draco said indignantly, cheeks flushing in affronted dignity once again.

_This whole defiant thing isn’t as amusing as I thought. I may not want him really hurt, but I do want him scared. He’s rather cute now though, all helpless and flustered, and annoyed at me, biting his lip._

Harry decided to ignore what Draco had to say and just proceed with feeding him. He picked up a fragment of pineapple and dipped it in yoghurt. Then he lifted the fruit, offering it to the blond. Draco tried to take it in his hand, but Harry jerked it back, smiling wolfishly, and lifted it to Draco’s lips. The blond rolled his eyes and leaned forward to get the fruit into his mouth. 

He swallowed quickly and immediately leaned back, sitting up poker-straight again. He’d no longer recovered some of his dignity when Harry said smoothly, “good, pet.”

Draco gave him a wary look, hearing the purr in his voice. His eyes widened anxiously at Harry’s lecherous expression. Harry smirked slowly, deliberately unsettling him and feeling Draco shift on his lap. Harry could see his blond wondering again if Harry would take him to bed. God, this game was exhilarating: keeping Draco off balance, not giving his pet a chance to claw back some of that icy composure. He doubted Snape would approve of this use of the psychology he’d taught him, but after all, Draco was his now; and even at school, he’d never missed a chance to mess with the Slytherin. It was just nice to know that this time he couldn’t lose.

Harry selected another piece of pineapple and held it out. Draco looked at it askance and Harry said warningly, “go on, pet.”

Draco scowled. “I’m not your _pet.”_

“Oh I disagree,” Harry murmured, as Draco ate the fruit.

He selected some toast for himself and munched on it, pondering how else to unsettle Draco. He was really enjoying this, even though some affection for the blond now shot through his very real lust. Why he should feel any affection for his bratty, prejudiced old enemy Harry had no idea; perhaps it was just his Gryffindorish tendencies coming out now he was faced with someone helpless. Having all this warm skin perched on his knee, Draco vulnerable in his shorts and T-shirt, was intoxicating.

“So what happened to you after Hogwarts?” Harry asked, as he finished his toast and handed Draco a slice, allowing him to hold it in his hands this time. Harry wiped his left hand and rested it on Draco’s right leg, just above the knee.

“I ran away with Snape,” Draco started. “He took me back – ” He stuttered to a stop, his grey eyes widening, his skin no doubt prickling. Harry’s thumb was rubbing over his pale skin. Draco turned to look at Harry. The ex-Gryffindor kept his green eyes neutral, but he never stopped rubbing at Draco’s skin.

Draco recovered his composure and began to talk again. “Snape Apparated me back to Riddle Manor. He took me to Voldemort. He was muttering to me as we went, telling me what to say, how to act, but...but I was too scared to listen to him.” Draco’s eyes met Harry’s defiantly, as though daring him to laugh. Harry saw nothing funny in a teenage boy’s terror of Voldemort – he’d been there himself, after all. He simply looked back calmly and nodded at him to go on.

“Anyway we went back, and...” he swallowed. “Voldemort wasn’t too happy. I faltered, but he’d meant Snape to do it in the end anyway, so he let me live. He told me a soft Death Eater was no use to him and tomorrow I’d have to kill Muggles. My – my mother killed herself the next morning.”

Harry stared, aghast, and pulled Draco closer. Harry held Draco against his body as he saw the grey eyes swimming with tears, arms around him protectively. He was improvising, wanting to discomfort Draco, and now he’d made him cry over his mother.

“She didn’t want to be used to force me into obeying,” Draco continued, sounding a bit choked, “and I think she lost hope that our family would have a happy ending after Dumbledore died.”

He shifted in Harry’s arms and added acerbically, “she was right, I daresay.”

Harry scowled. “Go on.” Draco nodded, seeming to have recovered some of his calm.

“After that I had no reason to stay – the Aurors were all guarding Azkaban like maniacs, so my father was safe, and anyway I knew my mum wanted me to get out. So I ran for it. I only had my wand, but I got to the Channel Islands and there’s a Malfoy cottage there. I used my blood to raise the wards as far as I could and waited it out.”

“So you just never came out?”

Draco shrugged. Harry’s arms loosened, his left hand slipping back to Draco’s leg. “The place had a house elf on retainer. She was crazy but she kept me fed. The place had a library and a Quidditch pitch – I survived. I was bored out of my mind but I was more scared of what would happen to me if I left than of tedium-induced insanity.”

“So what happened after?”

“One day the _Prophet_ said you’d won. Considering the quality of its reporting, I waited a few days and it kept saying the same thing. So I Flooed home to try and find my dad.” Draco glanced down, eyebrows raised, as he felt Harry’s fingers start to stroke his skin again, but continued. “Unfortunately the Aurors were swarming everywhere by then and I appeared in the fireplace in the reception area. Instant capture.”

Harry nodded, and stealthily began teasing at the skin a little further up Draco’s thigh.

“They took me back to the Ministry. I got put in a holding cell because they weren’t quite sure whether I was a real criminal or not. After all, I’m a Malfoy, and I did something awful – but Snape said I was coerced and I was underage when it all happened.

“Anyway, the Wizengamot said I had to be tried. I used an Unforgivable, that’s what they were really pissed about. So they – ”

Draco suddenly stopped, inhaling sharply in a breathy squeak. Harry had been very gently moving his hand up Draco’s leg, stroking his fingertips in small circles. Draco had been almost unaware of the caresses that had startled him before, wrapped up in reliving his experiences. But he’d just felt Harry’s fingers slide under the hem of his shorts, and Draco’s fears about Harry’s power and preferences welled up again.

Harry gave him a carefully emotionless look, though he couldn’t quite stop one side of his mouth turning up in a smirk. “Go on,” Harry repeated, his tone making it a command. Draco swallowed, seeing how dilated Harry’s pupils were. “Pet, do as I say.”

Draco made a strangled noise. _Pet? Just what am I to him?_ Harry’s hand squeezed his thigh at the delay, so Draco forced himself back on track.

“Right, the Wizengamot. They put me on trial. It lasted more than a week, and it had all these people coming up and saying stuff I’d said years ago. Snape spoke for me, and said Dumbledore had still tried to get me onside. But the court reckoned I’d probably not have taken his offer and I would have killed Dumbledore if Snape hadn’t got there first.” Draco scowled. Harry began sliding his hand a little further under Draco’s shorts, but carefully, and Draco talked fluently despite his master’s whims.

“But by this time you’d woken up and they bundled me off back to the holding cell. I was left there for ages. I think the Minister got me dumped there ’cause he’d already decided what to give you. I was left and they barely fed – ” Draco broke off, eyes wide. Harry’s hand had travelled worryingly. He was stroking at the soft skin and fiddling with the bottom hem of Draco’s briefs. If he moved his hand just a couple of inches, he’d reach his pet’s cock.

Harry smiled at Draco’s wide-eyed look of surprise. He kept touching, teasing at Draco’s skin. The blond squirmed in his lap, unable to contain his reaction. Harry met the anxious grey eyes, and saw Draco’s thoughts in them clearly.

_What is he planning to do? Is all this just to torture me, or would he really rape me?_

Harry grinned ferally and Draco swallowed. Harry decided to see if he could increase the slight arousal he could read in Draco’s squirming and quickened breaths, instead of the fear that ran alongside it. He moved his caressing hand just a fraction of an inch closer to Draco’s cock, and the blond snapped.

“Get OFF me, you PERVERT! Just leave me fucking alone!”

Harry glared and whipped his hands away. Draco gave a sigh of relief, which was quickly cut short as one hand buried painfully in his hair, pulling his head back harshly; the other lying against his collarbone, fingers resting warningly around the base of his throat.

“I _warned_ you, pet. Behave well or you’ll regret it. You don’t want to test me, I promise you. Talk to me with respect, or you’ll be punished, and punished hard. Is that understood?”

Draco gasped. He wasn’t sure if he believed Harry capable of real harm – much as he was blatantly enjoying Draco’s helplessness, he doubted Harry would enjoy his pain – but the sudden shift from teasing to threatening had completely taken him by surprise. The fingers at his throat and in his hair tightened. “Is that understood?” Harry repeated, his voice a growl.

“Yes,” Draco forced out, breathing fast. “I understand, I do, just _let go!”_ His voice rose in a pleading cry. _“Master!”_

Harry let go so quickly Draco nearly fell, but Harry caught him quickly. “There you go. Is calling me ‘master’ so hard?” He tried to sound insouciant, but Draco heard the unevenness in his tone.

“Pfft.” Realising Harry was no longer holding him into his lap, Draco quickly leapt away. “Don’t expect it to happen again any time soon. I’m really not the ‘master’ type.”

“What about Voldemort?” Harry pointed out as he stood up. Draco gave him a glare.

“That was a cheap shot. And it’s a completely different situation. You don’t have the ability – or the ruthlessness – to threaten my parents.”

Harry smiled wickedly, and came to stand behind Draco. He pressed his body against the other boy’s, one hand on the blond’s hip, the other going to caress at his stomach. “True,” he breathed in Draco’s ear. “But then I have lots of ways to control you that _he_ never thought of.”

Draco struggled, and Harry let him go with a laugh. Draco turned to glare up at him. He looked slightly ruffled and very annoyed, but he couldn’t conceal the slight dilation of his pupils or his quickened breathing. “That was cheesy, Potter.”

Harry chose to ignore this. This one was a win for him, whatever the blond said now. “Come along, pet.”

~*~

Draco rolled his eyes as Harry unlocked the door with a tap of his wand. “You’re leaving me here _again?”_

“I’ll let you out again for lunch,” Harry retorted. “And you could do with a little more respect in your tone.”

Draco snorted. “I’m sure. What’s happening at lunch, anyway? You just bringing me out for a little recreational molesting then chucking me back in the cell? Or are you actually going to get past feeling me up?” Draco’s eyes were ever so slightly wild; Harry recognised the look the blond got when he was just letting rip, when he wouldn’t know when to stop. “Of course, I understand if you wouldn’t. I am a little too much man for you. Although if you can handle the Weaslette – I understand she’s one hell of a goer – ”

Harry slammed Draco against the wall. _“Shut. Up,”_ he gritted. “Just stop talking. I am sick of your attempts to provoke me, and you talking about people I care about. _I – am – your – master,_ and you should be cleverer than this. You’ll certainly have to keep your mouth shut at lunch. Ron’s coming over, and if he’d heard what you’d just said you’d be spitting teeth right now.”

Draco quailed a bit at that. Harry suspected he had good reason; Ron had been unremittingly cheerful about Draco’s servitude. But he raised his chin all the same. “How good of you, Potter. Having a soup kitchen for the poor and needy, are we?”

Harry’s hands tightened on Draco’s shoulders, and the blond winced. “You’d better keep the lid on any comments like that at lunch. My friend is joining us, and you’ll serve him like a good pet, won’t you?”

“I am _not_ your _pet!”_ Draco yelled at the top of his voice. 

Harry smiled, and raised a hand to stroke Draco’s hair. “You were a good pet through most of breakfast, though. Cute, nice to stroke and eating out of the palm of my hand. You might have been a little wild at first, but I’ve got you very tame now, haven’t I, pet?” He recalled the feeling of Draco on his lap, eating only from his hand and helpless, and smiled. 

Feeling Draco try to move, Harry pressed himself closer against the warm body. Draco squirmed against him, but Harry was bulkier and the wriggling did nothing but amuse his master. His hands were now firmly around Draco’s upper arms and the blond could do nothing to dislodge them. “I’m sure you’ll be a very good pet for Ron.” Harry eyed the pouting lips and couldn’t help himself. He swooped down, crushing Draco’s lips with his, claiming more than kissing him. Draco made an outraged noise against his mouth, and Harry laughed low in his throat before pulling away. “You’re mine.” He pressed his thumbs firmly into the flesh of Draco’s arms, holding him tight as the blond fought. Harry finally rolled his eyes and propelled Draco into his room.

“Be ready to serve us, pet.” He slammed the door, chest heaving.

And now for a nice relaxing wank.


End file.
